Outside the Lines
by Melody Harper
Summary: Coloring inside the lines isn't always possible. Or right. Or the best way to live. Everyone strays outside from time to time. It's only bad if you're caught. Takes place after 'The Storm,' season 11 finale.
1. Shrink Rap

"So, we both know why you're here."

It was a statement that carried a slight edge of censure, which is exactly what Dr. William Fletcher intended. He'd spent quite some time researching this particular patient's background, which is why he wasn't surprised when he received a surly glance instead of a verbal response. He chose to ignore any implied criticism. This was an alpha male who'd been caught skirting the well-defined limits of the Department of Justice. Of course he would be resentful of being forced to backtrack and follow the procedures he should have honored in the first place.

 _They treated him like a criminal, and when they realized they were wrong about that, they used him to bring the real unsubs down, and now they're trying to save face by treating him like a schoolboy. Having to see me must seem like a punishment to him._

When silence ran a little longer than was comfortable, Fletcher tried again.

"Mr. Hotchner…your Section Chief _and_ the Director thought it might be a good idea for us to meet; maybe talk a little."

"If you say so." A noncommittal shrug accompanied the terse reply. Still, it was progress of sorts.

"May I call you Aaron?"

"May I call you Billy?"

Fletcher's professional smile slipped a little, but was quickly back in place. "I'd prefer Dr. Fletcher, or just Doc, if you don't mind."

"Then I'm Mr. Hotchner. Or just Agent."

The doctor took two slow, even breaths; a method of bolstering his patience. "As you wish…Agent." He leaned back in his chair, studying the man sitting on the edge of the couch. Fletcher had chosen the piece of furniture for its inviting, overstuffed comfort. Yet this man was making a determined effort _not_ to relax.

 _He's a profiler. Long time now. Undoubtedly as adept at reading people as I am. And he's irritated about being here. He's gearing himself up to spar with me. This could get complicated._ "Would you like to lie down? You look as though you could use a little rest."

"I'm fine. I'm not tired and I don't need a psychiatrist."

The doctor's tone, cordial until then…changed. It went flat, attaining a level of factuality that was sad, but firm, refusing to allow the often necessary human tactic of evasion. "You're _not_ fine, Mr. Hotchner. You were drugged, and manipulated, and traumatized, and you hid that fact from, well…from _everyone_ in the Department."

Another period of silence garnished with the occasional flickering of the patient's dark, angry eyes as he read his physician-adversary in small, surreptitious doses.

"Agent Hotchner be fair." Fletcher's voice strove for a cross between cajoling and soothing. "If any one of your BAU team had suffered what you did, you'd have insisted they receive care." Silence. "Wouldn't you? Agent?"

Hotch studied his hands. They were clasped in his lap as he forced his spine to stay rigid. He was trying hard not to knead his knuckles. It would be a dead giveaway to this persistent psychiatrist that stresses and tensions were roiling inside him.

Fletcher's eyes narrowed. He scanned this slender, suited man from head to toe; from disobedient cowlicks to spotlessly shining wingtips. Standing, he moved past the couch and his patient, heading toward the windowed wall behind them. He needed a moment to regroup. _This is getting us nowhere._

Gazing out at the busy Quantico afternoon traffic, the doctor fancied he could feel the agent's effort to remain stoic, unbending. He turned from the view and watched the Unit Chief's stiff posture, rigid in the narrow confines of his dark, perfectly pressed suit.

A wave of sympathy washed through Fletcher. _He's not stupid. He knows he could have used some help. Probably still could. But they shoved a gun in his face and let the trauma of his job spill over onto his young son. And now he's hurting and…and maybe what he needs most and first is an apology for how he was treated._ The doctor sighed a deep, regretful breath. _Imagine giving yourself as completely as he does to the Bureau, and then being doubted and accused and…_

Fletcher didn't bother to finish the thought. He had an idea how to proceed.


	2. The Different Sides of Damage

Dr. Fletcher decided to act on his decision without delay.

With a last, appreciative glance for the sunny vista beyond the window, he headed back toward his chair. _Okay. Round two, Mr. Hotchner…_ In passing, he placed a conciliatory hand on his patient's shoulder. The muscles beneath his palm twitched into iron-solidity.

Hotch jolted inside. He hadn't expected to be touched. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his muscles contract. It didn't seem possible for his spine to stiffen even more, but it did. To painful effect.

The doctor paused, concerned. He'd intended a reassuring pat, but the reaction he got was as though he had instigated an attack. _Great. Way to put the guy on his guard even more, Bill. Can't ignore these 'tells,' though. Have to deal with them or he'll think he's getting away with the 'I'm okay' act. And he's clearly lumped me in with all the upper echelons he thought supported him, but betrayed his trust._

"Little tense, Mr. Hotchner?" Fletcher let his hand linger, fingers probing as he tried to loosen the bunched muscle spanning the area between the patient's neck and shoulder.

"I'm fine. I just don't want to be here."

 _Well, that's opening up a little more at least. And it dovetails right into what I was thinking anyway._ "Neither do I."

Hotch couldn't help looking up at the man standing over him. He expected a trick of some sort. His trust in the DOJ and its inner workings was at a low point. Lower than when Strauss had suspended him. At least that betrayal had been attributable to the animosity of one woman. This latest series of events went much deeper. And much higher. It was department-wide as far as he could tell. This psychiatrist and the direct order to see him were extensions of the DOJ's suspicion.

Aaron tracked the doctor's expression. He had to admit the man had a kind smile. Hotch's professional radar didn't detect any subterfuge. Yet.

"C'mon, Agent. Let's get out of here." Fletcher gripped the tense shoulder and gave it what he hoped would be interpreted as a friendly, unthreatening shake.

The Unit Chief was not to be won over so easily. Not after what he'd been through. Not after what Jack had been forced to experience. "Why?"

"Because my orders were to see you for two hours every week for the next month. But no one said I had to do it here. And…" He looked toward the window. "…and it's a beautiful day. Never miss a beautiful day, if you can help it. C'mon…" Fletcher waited a few beats, then… "Please?"

Neither man blinked. Keeping his eyes fixed on the psychiatrist's, Hotch rose to his feet with slow deliberation.

Fletcher nodded, moved his hand around to his patient's back and nudged him toward the door.

"Good. Let's just take a walk and enjoy the sun. I don't imagine you get the chance often." That remark elicited a sharp look from Hotch. The doctor hastened to add… "I know how life in the FBI can be. You're not my first agent."

When he felt the Unit Chief's stiff spine ease a trifle beneath his palm, he decided to take a chance and bet the man had at least a tiny, little, infinitesimal bit of humor in him. "They keep you busy. I think you should take advantage of fine weather and a couple spare hours…. Nothing to do with being pale. Really. Nothing."

It didn't make Hotch smile, but the tension in his body quivered a little less overtly. That was good enough for Fletcher.

 _It's a start._

XXXXXXXXXXX

After traversing a long corridor bathed in cold fluorescence, and enduring a twelve-floor descent in an elevator populated with moist people who hadn't expected such a warm day, Hotch burst through the building's glass doors a little more forcefully that was necessary.

He wanted to escape, but was hyper-aware of the psychiatrist keeping pace at his side. When the two men had gone a few steps, staying even, stride for stride, Hotch gave up the idea of speed-walking away from this mandated session. There was nothing optional about it.

He avoided looking Fletcher in the face. He didn't want to see the kindness his profiler's senses had detected, and that he'd already glimpsed in the man's smile. He wanted to dislike this minion of mental health. He wanted to dislike something as much as he was afraid Jack disliked him. It was a childish reaction. Hotch knew it.

Nonetheless, he didn't feel like reining himself in. He was too upset and too occupied trying to demonstrate that he could deal with things. He didn't need help.

"Listen, Agent…" The doctor's voice was low and smooth, aimed at his patient's ear as he kept up with him. "…I know you don't want help. And I won't force it on you. Promise. But…" He risked touching the Unit Chief's shoulder once more. "…but I also know you're hurting."

Hotch's steps faltered. It wasn't what he'd expected to hear. He slowed; no longer trying to outrun the doctor.

"Mr. Hotchner, I'm not a bad guy. I'm not going to try to wrench you into whatever shape The Powers That Be think they want you in. I know pain, personally and professionally. I don't know you, but I can read people. That's something we share. A skill. Where we differ is that you use your skills to catch unsubs and stop them from doing any more evil than they've already done. I use my skills to try and mend the damage you can't prevent."

Hotch came to a standstill. Fletcher did, too; his hand still exerting gentle pressure on the suited shoulder of his patient.

"As I said, I don't know you, but what I'm reading is a gentle, honorable soul that got blindsided by those who should have known better than to doubt him…should have known better than to hurt him. Or his son." The psychiatrist studied the profile before him. The man's eyes were trained downward, but he was listening with every fiber, every nerve.

"Please, Agent. Just let me in a little way. I'll respect any boundaries you've erected around those places that hurt the most. Try. Just…try."

Hotch's swallow was audible. Fletcher felt a little more tension run out of the man. Still, he held his breath when the agent at last turned to fix him with strangely tortured, intense eyes.

"Okay, okay…You can call me Aaron."

"Thank you, Aaron. Thank you."

It was a small thing, but Dr. William Fletcher felt a surge of hope for this sad, damaged man.


	3. Trust Issues

Having cleared the small, but important, hurdle of being allowed to call Hotch by his first name, Dr. Fletcher tried to keep his grin from attaining a width that might be construed as triumphant.

He didn't want the agent to feel he'd lost any footing. He had an idea that control was important to him, as it was to most in a position of leadership. He noticed Hotch had returned his regard to the ground at their feet. There was a bone-deep sense of dejection about the man that both touched and troubled Fletcher.

"C'mon, Aaron. Let's keep going."

Still contemplating the pavement, Hotch resumed walking. His pace was more even now that he'd abandoned the idea of escaping the doctor at his side. The two men merged with the afternoon pedestrians; the FBI agent looking preoccupied, the psychiatrist taking the opportunity to study him. Fletcher was determined not to break the silence. It was necessary for Aaron to speak first; another small foot-in-the-door maneuver. The doctor was collecting them along the way in the hope that, having accrued enough, he'd be able to access the parts of his patient that seemed so closed off.

After a few blocks, Hotch began giving his walking-companion sidelong glances. A short while later, he broke the silence, granting Fletcher what he wanted.

"Where are we going?"

The doctor shrugged. "Nowhere special." He met Hotch's wary gaze, but only for a moment. _Like dealing with a feral dog. Don't let them catch you staring. It'll be interpreted as a challenge._ "You want to keep going, Aaron, or should we find a place to sit down?"

"Why? So we can talk?" The Unit Chief managed to make it sound as though conversation was an abhorrent, distasteful activity.

"We could talk. Or, we could sit and give this nice break in the weather the attention it deserves. Up to you." Fletcher could feel Hotch's dark eyes trying to pierce past the words, seeking the ulterior agendas he was sure were lurking behind them. The psychiatrist kept his own eyes trained forward. _If he has concerns, make him give voice to them. Pry speech out of him, but let him think it's his choice._

"I know you want me to talk to you, Doctor."

 _Damn. I keep forgetting he's reading me, too. Profiler._ "I do. And I know you don't want to. I can guess why, but I'd rather you tell me, Aaron."

"I don't trust you."

Fletcher blinked. It wasn't unexpected, but it was still a sobering statement when laid out so baldly, so unapologetically. They were walking at a much slower pace now. Words were taking focus over action, which was exactly what the psychiatrist had hoped. He nodded as they ambled forward. "I can't say I blame you, but there are multiple perspectives to every viewpoint…to every situation and to ever outcome."

"What do you mean by that?" Hotch's glare emerged in full force. He understood, but he couldn't allow himself to be objective just yet. He wanted to lash out and this doctor was as good a target as any. "Are you saying it was right for the DOJ to set their hounds on me to sniff out every detail of my life so they could weave it into something that would make me out to be some kind of…" Hotch cut himself off, clamping his lips into a tight line. The rage inside was still too fresh. As hurt and angry as he was, a survival instinct clicked in; exploding would be a bad idea. Especially in front of a mental health specialist hand-picked by Department personnel…who might still be out to get him.

Fletcher watched the doors inside Hotch slam shut. _Great. Too much, too soon. Don't tell a guy filled with unresolved, unexpressed emotion to 'think about it.'_ "I'm sorry, Aaron. I didn't mean to belittle what you've been through. Quite the opposite."

"That's not what it sounded like."

The doctor sighed. "That's because I'm not making a very good job of this. I _do_ want you to talk to me. How can I make it easier for you?"

In the brief silence that followed, Hotch mulled things over. At last, he gave Fletcher a calculating look. "How about for every question you ask me, I get to ask one back?"

 _Uh-oh._ _This could get awkward fast, especially since I can't lie to him. He's expecting it. He's testing me and would be only too happy to have his distrust confirmed. But this could also work out to be a fast track to taking the edge off his wariness. Maybe. If I don't screw it up._ He nodded. "We could try that. So, we have a deal?"

A sly glint in the FBI agent's dark eyes flashed, but was quickly gone. Still, the doctor took it as a hopeful sign. "Yeah, that'll work. And that was a question, so now it's my turn."

Fletcher had to work to keep his lips from twitching into a wry grin. _Smart. And tricky, but not in a mean way. Just being true to his alpha male nature._ "Alright. Your turn."

Hotch chewed on his lip for a moment, catching himself when he realized the doctor was noting every sign of distress that might help him access his patient's inner workings. He took a calming breath, stopped walking and turned to confront Fletcher, looking into his eyes.

"Am I right in assuming that doctor-patient confidentiality doesn't apply to our session?"

Hotch's sadness seemed almost palpable to the psychiatrist. He wanted to ease the man's worries, but… _I can't lie to him. And he knows how these things work anyway. He's read psych evals on others. There's no privacy. I just wish…_ Fletcher bit his own lip and didn't care if his profiler-patient saw.

"I'm sorry, Aaron. I _will_ be writing a report about you that'll go into your permanent file. I can't say for certain who'll see it, but I guarantee that it'll be available to your superiors." The doctor saw shadows of defeat darkening the agent's eyes. He had to do something to keep the man from sinking. "Would it help if I told you I'll keep personal details private? Just between you and me?"

There was no lightening of Hotch's expression. Fletcher wasn't surprised; again, it was the trust issue.

"Aaron, I'm not here to make things worse for you. Why can't you believe that?"

"Because you're working for people who went out of their way to make things worse for me. And that's a question. So it's my turn again."

The doctor felt a curious combination of respect for the agent's determination to keep the upper hand for as long as he could, and concern about what would happen when he finally lost control. Because the tables would turn. Of that he was sure.

And control of a conversation was one thing; control of the emotional pressures building inside an angry man was quite another.

Fletcher sighed. _Getting into Aaron Hotchner is going to be an ugly, uphill battle. I just hope there's some sort of victory at the end. Hell, I might have to settle for a truce._


	4. Questions

"What did they tell you about…about this…this…about this whole…?" Hotch's lip curled with revulsion.

He couldn't bring himself to name it. Dredging up words to define the situation that had led to meeting Dr. Fletcher would also access the depth of betrayal he felt. Rehashing or even touching on being taken into custody and interrogated…cuffed like the most unpredictable and destructive unsub… _As though I'd lunge across the table and attack like an animal!_...would only make the pain of it more immediate. He felt in control at the moment, much of which had to do with his being able to manipulate Fletcher's opportunities to initiate a conversation.

Hotch was clever by nature and by experience. He knew mental health professionals tended to ask gentle, probing questions. It was an effective tool in the discipline's arsenal. By making a bargain to trade question for question, he knew he was hamstringing the doctor's standard procedure.

He didn't care.

 _They sent me to be analyzed even after I led my team and brought down the real unsub. Even after everything I've done…all the cases I've seen through to a successful conclusion…_ His throat threatened to close. He fought it. _Even after all the blood, the injuries…even after losing Haley…they still have doubts about me._

He realized Fletcher was responding to his question, even though he hadn't really asked it. He was missing the answer; too caught up in his inner turmoil. _And that's not like me. I don't let myself get distracted like that. I'm not that self-indulgent._

But the doctor was looking at him with a puzzled expression. Hotch tried to fill the pause as Fletcher observed him. "I'm sorry, Doctor. Could you repeat that?"

A corner of the psychiatrist's lips quirked upward. "Well, that would make it two questions in a row for you, Aaron. That's not fair."

The doctor's grin vanished when he saw Hotch's shoulders slump; his eyes fill with that mournful look that Fletcher would dearly love to lighten. This wasn't just a game of wits they were playing. This FBI agent was damaged and struggling. _And as recalcitrant as he is, he's not giving up. He's a fighter, but he's also someone in pain. This is why I do what I do: the confused ones who don't know how they ended up in such a dark place._

The doctor revised the game's rules slightly. "I'm sorry." His voice was as sad as Hotch's eyes; devoid of competitive banter. "I think we're getting lost in verbal sparring. My intention isn't to engage you in battle, Aaron. You said you don't trust me. But I'm a stranger to you. It doesn't matter who hired me…who I work for. You don't know me. You have no reason to trust me."

Hotch's neck was bent. He was tracking the doctor from beneath his brows, looking for all the world like the feral canine Fletcher had likened him to when he'd made a point of not forcing too much eye contact.

The doctor took a deep breath. "Let's make a new deal. You can ask me whatever you want, as many questions as you want. When you run out of them, or you feel you don't need to ask any more, then it'll be my turn." _And I'm taking a gamble on you, Aaron. You were an attorney. You could fill our sessions with nonstop inquiries and avoid ever letting me in. I hope that doesn't happen._ "Is that something you could agree to?"

The two men had halted. Neither seemed to remember that they'd come out for a walk. Pedestrians flowed around them, paying no attention to just another couple of suits on the street in a town where dark-clad professionals were plentiful.

With slow deliberation, Hotch gave a single nod.

"Okay. You're right. I don't know you, Doctor. My question is, how well do you know me? I know you aren't coming into this blind. You've been told I'm some kind of problem. So, what did they tell you about me and…and…" No use. He still couldn't form the words that named his deepest pain. Not without giving too much away; a catch in his throat, a crack in his façade.

Fletcher wasn't smiling, but Hotch thought he could still read kindness in his expression. The doctor placed a gentle hand on the agent's back and coaxed him into resuming their walk. " 'They' didn't tell me anything. But I know everything they do…and then some." He steered Hotch around a corner.

"I also know a place where we can talk in private without being surrounded by all the trappings of a psychiatrist's office. You'll ask questions until you feel safe letting me ask one…"

Hotch glanced up for a moment. It was sharp and distrustful, but very quick. Fletcher noticed nonetheless.

"Don't look so worried, Aaron. You might have a thousand questions, but I only have one."


	5. Controlled Burn

**Note: Special thanks to Midwestdreamer for her firefighting analogy regarding a controlled burn…**

 **XXXXXXXXX**

Just as Fletcher had hoped, trailing the bait before Hotch about having only a single, all-encompassing question to ask once it was his turn was having an effect.

The two men paced along in silence, Aaron's brow furrowed as he inspected their new agreement from multiple angles. The freedom of being able to interrogate the doctor for as long and as much as he wanted forced him to reconsider his strategy for getting through these mandatory sessions.

"Here we are." Fletcher's hand on his arm, indicating they'd reached their destination, broke Hotch out of his reverie. "Lunch hour's over, so the place isn't too crowded." The psychiatrist pointed his chin toward the left. "Let's go over there."

It was a small strip of greenery inserted into the downtown area as a nod to urban planning and as a place for busy, office executives and harried politicians to take a break and breathe in the kind of therapy only nature could provide. A manmade pond dotted with ducks graced one end of the landscaped swathe of grass and trees. Conveniently placed benches and the occasional trash can marked the area as a favored lunch locale, weather permitting.

"Here." Fletcher took a seat and patted the surface beside him. "This is my favorite place when I need a break."

Hotch sat, looking wary.

He knew the techniques employed to worm one's way into someone's confidence. Dropping little comments about being under stress like everyone else and needing to get away even for a few minutes was designed to do just that. But when the doctor leaned back, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing it almost as though he were trying to prolong the moment, as though he were savoring a rare instance of freedom…Hotch felt an answering echo in his own soul.

He stared, willing Fletcher to open his eyes and be confronted. The slow, simmering anger that had been building in the Unit Chief was nearing the surface. It wouldn't take much to set it off.

Fletcher felt himself being watched. He kept his eyes closed and took another calming breath, hoping to set an example. He imagined he could feel his patient's presence like a tightly wound spring, quivering with aggressive energy. So he kept his lids firmly closed and basked in the sun's warmth. "You have questions for me, Aaron. Now's the time to ask them."

For a moment Hotch's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. _Damn it! Don't be so…so cooperative!_ By abandoning the role of inquisitor, the psychiatrist had positioned himself so that it would be too easy for Hotch to look like a bully.

When the silence continued, except for the inaudible, psychic noise of a stewing FBI agent, Fletcher opened his eyes and stood up. He shrugged out of his jacket, loosened his tie and resumed his place on the bench, looking cooler and more relaxed.

He accomplished the entire routine without a single glance that might ignite Hotch. _And that's exactly what'll happen if I'm not careful_ , the doctor cautioned himself as he let his head fall back in order to fully appreciate the sunlight. _My job here is to initiate a controlled burn before the guy bursts into a full-fledged conflagration._ He grimaced. _Not that it would be as violent as the DOJ envisioned when they bought into the frame-up of one of their top agents. No…it'll be more like internal combustion, doing damage from the inside out. The kind I'm supposed to prevent._

Fletcher cracked one eye open, scanning his fully-suited patient. "Take your jacket off, Aaron. Relax."

"There's nothing relaxing about being here. I know what you're trying to do."

"I'm sure you do. Believe me, I'm not underestimating you. And even though trying to manipulate you is second nature to someone in my line of work, I'm not going to consciously do anything that'll make you uncomfortable."

"I'm uncomfortable now. All of this…everything about it is uncomfortable."

Pulling himself up from his easy slouch, the doctor finally looked at Hotch and saw an embattled man. _And he's at war with himself most of all_. "You weren't at ease in my office, so we came out here. You weren't pleased about being questioned, so I've given you carte blanche with the interrogation aspect of this session. You're not only still on edge, you're building up to an explosion. So maybe it's time for me to ask the one question that's foremost in my mind after all."

You could say a lot of things about Aaron Hotchner, but you couldn't call him unfair. His own, personal sense of justice was strong. It had landed him in hot water from time to time. It was what had fueled the DOJ's accusations. They'd misinterpreted actions that Hotch knew wouldn't hold up under Bureau scrutiny. But he also knew that they'd been the right thing to do at the time.

Now, despite his outrage and desire to release all the anger he'd been harboring and sipping at like a daily, toxic tonic, he could see how unreasonable he might seem to Dr. Fletcher. He gritted his teeth and determined he would _not_ give up the control the psychiatrist had dangled before him. He growled his first question.

"I asked you what you'd been told about me…"

"And I said that I hadn't been told anything, but your mind was elsewhere, so let me repeat and elaborate. I was asked to talk to you. That's where I cut off any verbal opinions from higher-ups who are already operating from second- and third-hand information." Fletcher leaned forward, elbows on knees and tried to keep both his tone and his expression mild. "I wanted to draw my own conclusions. So I read all I could on your cases, and your job evaluations. I'm familiar with everything that's on file about you, Aaron. The good and the questionable. The only conclusion I drew from all that information was that you've been traumatized a number of times. The only conclusion I drew from your superiors' request to meet you was that you're extremely valuable to them."

The doctor saw Hotch's brows twitch; his eyes narrow. "Or they want to find some reason to get rid of me."

Fletcher leaned back once more, surveying the serene landscape. "I don't get the agents they want to dump, Aaron. I only get the ones they want to help. I don't come cheap. Anyone could trump up a report that says an employee isn't emotionally fit. They only spring for my services when the agent in question is a keeper." He fixed Hotch with a sad, searching look. "I'm operating on the assumption that they feel guilty for what you've been through and how you've been treated. I think I'm their way of saying they're sorry." _And that's the closest you'll get to an apology from anyone, my friend. So it better be enough._

Hotch blinked a few times. He was angry at how he'd been treated, but he was _livid_ about how Jack had been made witness to it. "That's not good enough, Doctor. Not even close."

Fletcher nodded. He'd expected as much. "Well, then now is a good time for me to ask you my one question."

Hotch raised his chin, giving the psychiatrist suspicious regard through slitted eyes. "What?"

"Just this, Aaron: How can I help you?" The doctor's voice was low, tinged with genuine concern. "Tell me what you need and I'll do my best for you. How can I help you?"

At last, Hotch broke eye contact, choosing instead to gaze out toward the landscape, even though he wasn't really seeing it. The anger still boiled inside him, but now it was joined by frustration. He hadn't expected this, although maybe he would have if he were less upset, if he were thinking clearly.

The only problem was…Hotch didn't know what he needed. Acknowledging that fact made him feel very lost, and very small, and not in control at all.

He hated it.


	6. Storm Center

Mind churning with unresolved and undefined issues, Hotch studied an inner landscape rather than the one stretching before him.

Fletcher waited. The power of silence could not be overrated. So many people would rather speak than bear the discomfort of it that they'd do so almost compulsively. The psychiatrist sometimes found useful nuggets of information that way. So he watched his patient and waited to see if this one was a silence-hater.

Hotch wasn't.

He was making a sincere effort to unravel the gorgon's knot of tangled reactions and emotions that hadn't been so noticeable before he'd been accused of terrorism…before he'd heard his young son's cry when his father had been hustled away at gunpoint.

Gun.

Like the one that had killed the boy's mother. Only this time Jack was old enough to understand the danger; old enough to know that sometimes parents disappeared to the sound of bullets and never came back.

 _The world shouldn't be so unreliable at that age_ , Hotch fumed. _A child should be able to enjoy at least a few years secure in the knowledge that no one will destroy the things and people he holds dear. My son should feel safe!_ His eyes filled. _They had no right to do that! NO RIGHT!_

Fletcher glanced at his watch. The Bureau had stipulated two-hour sessions rather than the standard one-hour, which he considered another sign of the value they placed on this agent, and maybe the guilt they felt for inflicting even more damage than he'd already suffered during an uncommonly turbulent career. The doctor realized he wouldn't begrudge spending even more time on this case. The things he'd gleaned from researching Aaron Hotchner were fascinating and disturbing. And even if the man was surly during this first meeting, the doctor could sense underlying character traits that he liked. _Well worth salvaging._

Fletcher was about to suggest that they head back to his office when he noticed his patient's eyes were glistening; liquid with tears barely held in abeyance. He had intended to give Hotch as much leeway as possible to sort through things himself. The doctor's personal psychiatric style was to keep a light hand on the reins. He felt the most therapeutic results were accomplished when his patients didn't have answers handed to them. It was better if they could trace their troubles back to the source themselves. More empowering. More likely to stay unraveled once they were exposed.

But this looked different. This was pain, when all the doctor had wanted this first day was to lay the groundwork for some soul-searching that would occupy Hotch until their next meeting when, hopefully, he would have taken a few steps on his own toward understanding and acceptance of the issues smoldering within him.

"Aaron?" Fletcher edged a little closer, leaning to give himself a better view of Hotch's face. "What's goin' on?" There was no mistaking the genuine concern in his tone.

The Unit Chief pressed his lips and eyelids tight and angled his head away from the man at his side, ashamed at being caught in such a weak moment. In truth, he'd been so deep in his own thoughts he'd almost forgotten he had company; the doctor's presence had been that unobtrusive. Unfortunately, squeezing his eyes shut made the liquid pooling in them overflow. That just made him feel worse.

"Aaron, can you tell me what's happening to you right now? I meant what I said before when I asked if I could help. Just tell me how."

"You can't help." Hotch choked the words out, tamping down the unwelcome surge of emotion.

"That's not fair. You haven't given me a chance."

"You can't help!" The FBI agent's response tasted of the rage he'd been harboring far too long. "No one can help!"

"I might surprise you, Aaron."

At last Hotch opened his eyes, not bothering to wipe the tear tracks away, and confronted Fletcher. "I need to turn the clock back, Doctor. I need to wipe my son's memory clean of losing his mother and then seeing his father dragged away like a common criminal…one of the guys he always thought Daddy fought. Now, he's not so sure. I tried so hard to make him feel safe after his mom was…was…"

"Killed. I read your files. I know what you've been through."

"But you don't know what my son has been through!" Misery made Hotch's voice scale upward, crack and then drop back down to a rumbling that reminded Fletcher of a thunderstorm; distant, but getting closer all the time. "I'm the only one who has any idea what Jack's life has been like. I'm the only one who knows how important it is for a kid to feel safe, to know that something bad isn't waiting around every corner…hunting him…"

The psychiatrist's professional ears pricked forward.

This was a lot more than he'd expected to pull out of his patient their first time together. It had the sound of something that ran deeper and longer than Aaron's career. Although the doctor congratulated himself on this outpouring, it also troubled him. It meant that, as controlled and controlling as Aaron was, for him to spill tears and agony to this extent was a sign that hurricane force winds were closer to the surface than anyone had suspected.

 _There's a storm inside him. We have to depressurize it before he gets swept away…_


	7. A Wider Perspective

Dr. Fletcher gave Hotch a few minutes to collect himself, during which he studied the man's lean, tear-streaked profile.

He hadn't expected such a strong reaction. While the FBI agent tried to cover his embarrassment by clearing his throat, scrubbing at his eyes, and looking anywhere but at the man beside him, the doctor's mind was speeding. He'd been presented with a rare opening, but also a fragile one. The ball was in his court and, after having researched his patient, Fletcher was pretty sure he knew what kind of ball it was. He could either pursue his hunch, pushing Hotch past his limits and possibly alienating him completely, or he could try to tiptoe into the eye of the man's storm; maybe find that calm place where he could see all the psychological detritus whirling and spinning around him.

When Fletcher felt his patient had regained control, he waded in.

"Aaron, are you sure that's how your son feels? As though something bad is just waiting to happen? I think you said 'hunting' him?"

"How could he not?" Hotch's voice had a blurred, hollow quality; the aftermath of his sinuses having been clogged by tears. He tried to snuffle it away. "He's gotta be thinking right now that everything bad that happens to him comes from my job. He's not stupid. He sees everything. I'm not the good guy he thought I was."

The doctor chose his words with care. He knew where he wanted to go, but threading his way through the minefield of Hotch's psyche would require a very delicate, very indirect path. "Alright. You know your son better than anyone else, of course." He paused, consciously avoiding any judgmental tone that might give him away. "Have you talked to him? About how he feels?"

"I know how he feels." Hotch sat straighter and squared his shoulders. He heaved a weary sigh; his honest nature wouldn't let him evade or mislead. "But, no…we haven't really had a discussion. He…he doesn't seem to want to talk about it."

"Ah. I see. So you've tried and he wouldn't respond?"

"Pretty much." The Unit Chief didn't feel like talking about Jack. The worst wound to have come out of having been arrested and accused was the chilly, injured air that his son had adopted. Hotch's resultant pain ran too deep for him to do more than offer opportunities to have a father-son conversation. Each time he was rebuffed, the crack in his heart widened and his soul withered a little more.

Fletcher's eyes narrowed as he watched his patient train his unseeing gaze out over the scenery again. He dearly wanted to push a little more. He'd read the profile that was compiled when Hotch was accepted into the Bureau. What details there were concerning Hotch's childhood had been grim. An overbearing, abusive father. An ineffective mother. A little brother who'd become an under-achiever.

The psychiatrist found it tempting to draw conclusions already about why this agent sometimes ignored procedure, sometimes kept secrets, sometimes got hurt more grievously than anyone suspected. But it was only their first session. And two hours, even if it had provided something substantive, wasn't enough to supplement the Department files and allow Fletcher to consider Aaron Hotchner a known quantity.

He watched his patient's features reassemble themselves into the stoic façade that couldn't quite conceal the traces of anguish now that the doctor had seen beneath the surface and knew they were always there. _He's fragile. Letting go the way he did was involuntary and disturbing to him. He's going to be doubly on his guard from now on because he won't want a repeat performance. But I need to flesh out the picture I've already formed of him. Maybe I can find supplemental information…if he'll allow me to search for it._

Fletcher stood, dropping a light touch on Hotch's shoulder as a way of calling him back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. "I think you've had enough for today, Aaron. Let's head back."

Wordless, the Unit Chief rose, brushing and readjusting his suit out of habit. The doctor slipped back into his jacket, but let his tie remain loose and askew. _I wonder if his presenting a perfectly groomed appearance is armor he's developed, or is it something that was installed in him as a child? Lots of things to find out about you, Mr. Hotchner. And to that end…_ "Aaron, do you have any close friends?"

The two men had resumed walking. There was less foot traffic than when they'd started, or maybe it was that there were fewer pedestrians going away from the small, urban oasis than toward it. Hotch hesitated before replying, agile mind running over the possibilities attendant on his answer. "Why do you ask?"

"As I said, you're not my first agent. You guys don't have a lot of free time, so whatever friendships you do manage are usually deeper and more intense than your average civilian relationship."

"That's not an answer. It's an observation."

Fletcher could feel the mantle of suspicion and distrust descending over his patient like an exoskeleton. It was settling into place with each step that brought them closer to his office where all the hallmarks of his profession hung on the walls and were embodied in a comfy couch. He wanted to see if he could shoot one more arrow into a target before Hotch's defenses had slammed closed completely.

"I'm wondering how you'd feel if I talked to one of your friends."

The Unit Chief scowled, watching the sidewalk pass by beneath their feet. "Why?"

"You're a profiler. You know how it works. I have the Bureau's paper trail which gave me a one-dimensional view of you. I wouldn't presume to say I know you well after meeting you just this once, but already I see things that can't be caught in official reports. Sometimes our friends have a clearer vision of us than we do of ourselves. Especially if they're very good, very close friends."

Fletcher took a cautious breath and shortened his stride a little, wanting to resolve this issue before they reached his office and Aaron's armor was fully in place. "So I'm asking you if you have anyone like that in your life with whom I could speak. _If_ you don't mind, that is."

Hotch let a few beats of silence fall as he mulled over a request he hadn't expected. He'd thought this episode in his professional life would be completely private, except, of course, for the report the doctor had already said he was duty-bound to place in the Unit Chief's permanent file. The fact that Fletcher didn't interrupt or try to press his case forward finally tipped the scales in Hotch's decision.

"So, what would happen? You'd just call someone up out of the blue and say you want to talk about me?"

"No." The psychiatrist hid his surge of triumph when the response wasn't a flat refusal. "You'd give them a heads up. Tell them that this is an evaluation, but not one geared toward anything disciplinary. It's just a sort of state-of-the-agent checkup. That's all. And if they agree, we'd set up an appointment. Whenever and wherever is convenient for them." The doctor held his breath, hoping he'd made his request sound mild and unassuming.

More silence. Slower pace. At last, a block away from Fletcher's office building, Hotch cleared his throat.

"If I refuse, it'll be in your report, right? And the Bureau would see that as just another mark against me."

"No. It's not like that." The doctor could feel this opportunity slipping away. He made a last grasp for it. "Whatever your friend tells me, I'll keep to myself. The report I do will be based on my sessions with you, and you alone. No one else."

They'd reached the wide, glass doors leading into Fletcher's official territory. The doctor knew his patient would leave him here. Their time was up. "Aaron? It might help both of us, and I can promise it won't hurt."

Hotch had resumed his professional front. His eyes bored into Fletcher, assessing him just long enough to create a little doubt. "Okay, Doctor. My closest friend is also an agent; a member of my team. David Rossi."

Inwardly, the psychiatrist breathed a great sigh of relief. "Thank you, Aaron. So you'll talk to him sometime this week…yes?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That's good." Fletcher wondered if he should leave things with this small victory, or if he could dare a little more. _If you don't ask, you don't get…_ "Maybe after I talk to Mr. Rossi, you'll let me touch bases with the other person you're closest to?"

Hotch's posture straightened. His chin rose.

"Would you mind if, at some point in our time together, I met your son?"

The Glare emerged in full force, skewering the doctor and erasing any impressions he'd had of having befriended Hotch. "NO. Absolutely not." The Glare didn't waver. "Are we done here, Doctor? May I go?"

"Of course. I'll see you next week." Fletcher watched his patient stalk away. Slim. Stiff. Encased in the narrow confines of his dark suit.

 _Of course you can go, Aaron. I'm not holding you prisoner. You're doing a fine job of that all on your own._

 _But we are most definitely_ _ **NOT**_ _done here._


	8. Parent-Teacher Conference

**Note: The site's gone wonky! I can't reply to reviews, but I will as soon as the site lets me. In the meantime, THANK YOU MidwestDreamer, CMFAN2009, pechika, tlcroft, snuggleUP, shellyhoffer7, RoxyDoodle, and hotchpodge. Knowing someone's reading is what keeps me writing!**

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi wrapped his fingers around the stein of beer, icy with condensation, and settled himself on a barstool at his favorite tavern. "So…we both know why we're here."

The statement sent icicles lancing through Hotch's intestines for a moment. It was nearly the same proclamation Dr. Fletcher had made to initiate their first therapy session. He blinked his discomfiture at the older man.

"Aaron? What's up with you? For a couple of weeks now you've been…I dunno…off. And this week I feel like I need to make loud noises to announce my presence or you'll jump out of your skin. What the hell's up with that? You need a hug or something?" Rossi's cavalier tone did little to mask his genuine concern.

"I'm…"

"If you start that 'I'm okay' stuff, I'm gonna smack you. Right here in front of everyone. Don't even try it."

Hotch sat straighter and emitted the sigh of a martyr. "If you'd've let me finish, I was going to say that I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Liar. But you do have stuff on your mind, which is why I asked you here. And you know it. If it makes it any easier, I have a pretty good idea what's eating you." Hotch turned large, incredulous eyes on his friend, making Rossi chuckle and almost choke on the beer he was in the process of swallowing.

"Aaron, I know how things work. Every now and then the Bureau has to recertify us on the gun range. And when an agent goes through some rough waters and wreaks a little havoc, or looks a little shipwrecked…they do another kind of recertification." Dave allowed a small smile to play about his lips at the continued look of unease verging on denial that Hotch could hide from almost everyone else, but not the man who'd mentored him into becoming the agent he was.

At last, the Unit Chief moistened a throat gone dry with a sip of his own drink. He trained his eyes elsewhere and spoke in a low tone. "What have you heard?"

Rossi matched his friend's confidential demeanor, speaking softly for their ears alone. "Nothing. There's no gossip worth worrying about. But I know how the wheels in this place turn. Once an agent's crossed the line too many times, the guys upstairs don't feel good unless they sic some of their dogs on him." He took another drink and broke into an appreciative grin. "And you play outside the lines a lot, Aaron."

Rossi watched his companion, amused at the stoic veneer that couldn't quite mask a combination of disbelief and anxiety. He leaned, giving Hotch's shoulder an amiable bump. "What…you think you're the only one the upper echelons scolded and dragged through their version of high school detention?" He turned his attention to the lineup of colorful liquor bottles behind the bar, looking smug.

"You?" This was a chapter in Dave's life that Hotch had yet to hear. There were rumors, but he made a point of ignoring them. This was his first opportunity to tap into their source. "They went after you?"

"Me. For…how did they put it?...inappropriate workplace behavior. You remember when I first came back and you introduced me to J.J.? We watched her walk away and I said that we'd never had anything like _that_ in the BAU when I first started. Don't lie, Aaron…you thought I was talking about a fine, perky, little blonde. But I said I meant a press liaison…and a jet…and all the other fancy, new improvements since Gideon and I started the whole idea of profiling. Well, truth is, I _was_ talking about a lovely, young woman. We didn't have many in the Bureau when we first started. Not agents anyway."

He gave Hotch a sly, sidelong leer worthy of a dastardly, cartoon villain. "All your fine, workplace ethics were ready to pounce if you'd thought I'd been entertaining even a whiff of anything going on that could be construed as fraternization. Admit it."

Hotch didn't. He was leaping ahead to what he assumed would be the pertinent part of these revelations. "So when did they…? How…?"

Dave shrugged while managing to swagger and puff without leaving his seat. "I stepped over the line one too many times. It's hard to ignore when office activities become the stuff of legend…" He raised his nose toward the ceiling, striking a noble pose. "New standards for the workplace were announced, and…I got disciplined." Rossi dropped his humorous stance. "So I'm guessing the same type of thing's happening to you. Am I wrong?"

"No. No, you're not wrong." But rather than looking borderline proud of having pushed the boundaries, Hotch's head drooped, taking tremendous interest in contemplating the suds in his glass, rather than meeting Rossi's eyes.

The older agent sighed. "Aaron, you don't get to be a career agent and climb the ranks year after year without getting slapped down once or twice. It goes with the territory. Hell, Erin Strauss suspended you at one time. You got past that, didn't you? Well, you'll survive this, too."

When Hotch failed to pick up the bait and allow himself to be bolstered, Rossi cast about for some more ammunition in the battle to make the Unit Chief feel better. "In case you hadn't noticed, they hire alpha males almost exclusively. And alpha males don't take to leashes or rules very well. At some point, they push back just to see if they can get away with it."

Hotch shook his head in slow, mournful cadence. "Not me. Anything I've done, I really thought it was for the best. Not to prove some point about bucking authority."

Rossi stared, observing the younger man from the perspective of a mentor as well as a friend. After several beats, he expelled a deep breath and dropped his strategy to make light of Bureau-inflicted discipline. He bowed his head and abandoned all pretense. "All right, Aaron. My situation wasn't quite the same as yours, but I know how it hurts to be doubted when you've been giving everything you have in support of those doubters. Tell me what's going on. Maybe I can help."

Hotch continued to gaze into his glass. Rossi nudged him. "Come on. I know they're probably making you see a therapist already. And I know you're not much of a talker, so it's no picnic. What's going on? Where did they send you?"

Hotch's voice was so low, Dave had to strain to hear. "Guy named William Fletcher. Psychiatrist. Saw him a few days ago."

Sullen silence told Rossi that was all the Unit Chief was going to volunteer on the subject. He nursed his beer for a few sips, considering. "You don't like him?"

Hotch shook his head. "No, he's good."

"Ah," Rossi nodded. "Too good. That it? He found a way into you and you weren't exactly open for visitors?" Aaron's quick glance was unguarded. Dave caught his breath. _Like windows that open on nothing but pain._ "Look, you don't trust your superiors right now. I get it. But in their eyes you did some pretty untrustworthy things yourself. Are you aware of that?"

Hotch's only response was to press his lips into a tight, white line.

"Aaron, okay. This guy's invading you. Even though you're a profiler, he's that good that he can get to you. But, again, look at it from the Bureau's perspective. They know more about all of us than we'd like to think. But, even knowing all the things for which they condemn you, the plus side of the Aaron Hotchner equation outweighs the minuses. Why else would they be taking the trouble to have someone like that talk to you? They want you back and they want you whole and functional. So, if you're looking for advice, mine is…talk to this guy. Play along. At least for now, okay?"

"He wants to talk to _you_ , Dave."

Hotch had to admit a small, defiant satisfaction when Rossi went still and quiet. For all he valued the man's greater experience and envied his insouciant attitude, it felt like validation of his own misgivings; like suddenly bouncing the ball into Dave's court. But only for a moment.

"Oh. He wants to see me. Did he say why?"

"He said sometimes our friends know us better than we know ourselves. Maybe he thinks you're a fast-track to me."

Hotch was surprised when Rossi's grin reemerged in all its carefree glory. "He's right. Like you said, this guy _is_ good. So you told him he could talk to me?"

"No. I let him believe it, but I never said I'd do anything more than talk to _you_ about it. And now I have." The Unit Chief bent over his beer, giving it his full attention as though the discussion were over.

After a few minutes of staring once again at the array behind the bar and rubbing his beard, Rossi nodded to himself. Raising a hand, he summoned the bartender. "Two of your best scotch…neat…and make them doubles." When the man slid the drinks before them, Dave met Hotch's eyes.

"Aaron, my boy, we're going to have a couple of good, stiff belts. And then you're going to call that shrink and tell him I want to talk to him."

"But…"

"No. No 'but's. I never got to do the whole raising-a-kid thing. If the Bureau's treating you like you're in detention, then I'm gonna look at this as a Parent/Teacher Conference." Rossi raised his glass. "This could be interesting…"

Hotch turned a jaundiced regard on his scotch. Slowly, he pushed it over to Dave.

The final decision about letting Dr. Fletcher in deeper had been taken away from him.

His stomach was executing Olympic-caliber gymnastics.


	9. In Case of Emergency

It had been a busy week.

There had been a captain of industry whose conscience festered at the ploys he used to reach the pinnacle of success; several politicians' spouses who felt left behind as their significant others roared in the political arena; and as always, a handful of the traumatized who were realizing in middle-age that they'd been walking wounded for most of their adult lives.

Even so, Dr. Fletcher made time to look into the FBI agent who was Aaron Hotchner's closest friend.

It wasn't as extensive as the research he'd done on his patient, but he wanted to have a basic idea of what the man who had managed to slip through Hotch's defenses was like. It would only be a truncated paper trail, but it was better than nothing, and really all he could manage without invading Rossi's privacy too much. Fletcher was careful to confine his forays to those agents the DOJ designated as fair game.

What he found intrigued him.

David Rossi was an odd duck. A very admirable odd duck.

He was a best-selling author, a millionaire a few times over, and a much-married and much-divorced man. His early career had been in the FBI where he'd been instrumental in forming what had grown into the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He'd retired…and then returned. It was all interesting reading, but one part made Fletcher frown and then backtrack: the simple form each agent filled out about whom to contact in case of emergency.

To prevent tongue-in-cheek responses like 'The best doctor you can find,' or 'Someone who'll be able to tell if it was _really_ an accident,' agents were told that their selection could not include their doctor unless that doctor was a personal friend, nor could they designate a fellow agent, unless that agent was either a relative or, again, a close personal friend. Even then, it was suggested that the agent be named only if there were absolutely no other alternative. Next-of-kin was strongly recommended. When Fletcher had read through Hotch's form, there'd been a special note that his closest relative was a minor…his son Jack…and the adult to be notified was one Jessica Brooks, relationship: sister-in-law.

Rossi's form indicated a change had taken place several months ago. The agent's previous contact had flown in the face of the Bureau's regulations. 'In case of emergency contact: Aaron Hotchner.' But it had been changed to 'Joy Struthers.' Relationship: daughter. An even more recent, and secondary contact, was listed as 'Hayden Montgomery.' Relationship: friend.

Fletcher's brow creased a little deeper. _So either Agent Rossi's daughter just attained adulthood, or he recently adopted her, or…something else has changed. He listed Aaron as though he were family. They're still close friends, but now he's been supplanted by whoever this Hayden is. Something substantive has happened in Mr. Rossi's life. And it seems the timeline weaves around and through some of Aaron's more disturbing experiences. Intriguing._

The psychiatrist stashed these bits of data away to keep in mind when he interviewed Rossi.

 _And that's another unusual twist. I think this is the first time a friend of a patient has taken the initiative, called me, and set up his own appointment._

Fletcher had discerned the sounds of a barroom in the background. He'd half expected Rossi to call him back the next day and retract his offer, claiming it was due to liquid-impaired judgment. But the man hadn't backtracked. And the appointment was tomorrow; late afternoon at the end of the workday.

 _And if Mr. Rossi's week has been as full as mine, neither one of us will feel like playing games, drawing things out._

With a sigh, Fletcher closed the slim folder the Bureau had provided at his request. The doctor smiled. _If I were studying for an exam, I think I'd be lucky to get a B on David Rossi as he figures in the life of Aaron Hotchner. But I'll aim for an A._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Come in. I'm William Fletcher. Good to meet you."

"David Rossi. Likewise."

The two men shook hands and locked eyes. After several beats, both couldn't stop the spread of sheepish grins.

The psychiatrist swept an arm wide, motioning for Rossi to take a seat wherever he wished. "So now we've formed our first impressions, yes?" Dave's chuckle was answer enough. "I told Aaron that he wasn't my first agent," Fletcher continued, "but I neglected to add that I really haven't worked with that many profilers." He shook his head, sounding rueful. "It's kind of like looking into a mirror…being assessed as one is in the act of assessing."

Rossi dropped into a chair, giving the couch a wide berth. He wasn't sure if the doctor could prevent himself from falling into the habit of treating everyone who entered his office as though they were in need of mental adjustment. Lacking that surety, he wanted to be on his guard. _God knows, every agent has his share of baggage, but Hotch should be the focus of this meeting._

"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee…" Fletcher glanced at his watch. "It's after regular hours, so…something stronger?"

Rossi's brows rose with interest. "Got scotch?" It sounded like an adult version of 'Got Milk?'

In answer, the psychiatrist walked to a credenza against one wall. Pulling open a cupboard, he revealed a fairly decent mini-bar. "Chivas Regal Royal Salute."

"Well, well, well," Dave gave a contented sigh, leaned back and crossed his legs, looking much more relaxed. "If I'd known refreshments were of this caliber, I'd have called for an appointment long, long ago."

Fletcher smiled, extracting two cut-glass tumblers from an inner shelf and pouring a generous amount in each. "About that. You impressed me, Mr. Rossi. It's usually like pulling teeth to get an agent's friends and family in here." He brought both drinks with him, handing one to his visitor…and then performed his first test, recalling how Aaron had responded in similar circumstances. "Mind if I call you David?"

"Not at all." Rossi sipped his drink and let his eyes drift shut for a moment in gustatory bliss. "But most people call me Dave."

Fletcher took a seat and sipped from his own tumbler. _So Aaron's prickly reluctance and resentment aren't echoed in his friend._ He decided to get down to business. "Of course I don't know what you and Aaron have discussed. Clearly you did talk or you wouldn't have called me."

"I called because your request to meet me was causing Hotch a lot of anxiety. Making it a done deal relieved him of that. His job and being a single dad are stressful enough without…this." Rossi lifted his drink toward the room; an all-inclusive gesture that encompassed the recent actions of the DOJ as well as the mandated psychiatric sessions.

The doctor nodded. "I'm not going to go into detail, but it was very clear to me in just one appointment that Aaron…Hotch, you said?..."

"What we call him at work."

"Well, he's a man on the edge."

"I know."

"Probably better than most, if you two are close, which is why I'd like to cut to the chase."

Rossi sat forward, elbows on knees. "You've read his case files, haven't you?"

"In detail. As many as I could find." Fletcher mirrored the agent's posture, leaning in. Both were aware that this was why they'd come together. The small talk was over.

"Hotch is a very private person. He's used to being alone and handling his problems by himself." Dave's voice lowered; his tone taking on an undercurrent of outrage he didn't bother to hide. "Can you imagine how it feels for a man like that to know that an unsub was running around in his head? Touching things? Violating his mind and memories?"

Fletcher gave the barest nod. He could feel a tenuous connection with the agent. He would maintain it as long as possible; would use it to gain as much information as possible.

"And after he's been laid bare like that, he pulls himself together and keeps doing his job, because to Hotch being able to keep working is what pulls him back from teetering on that edge. And when he's starting to feel as though he's got his footing back, then…BAM!..." Rossi took a little satisfaction in seeing the doctor flinch. "…he's blindsided by accusations that make everything he's devoted himself to accomplishing…at tremendous personal sacrifice I might add…that make everything he's done a lie. Everything. His work as an agent. His reliability as a father. Everything he holds dear and would die for is painted ugly."

Dave's eyes never left Fletcher's. He leaned forward even more. "And then he finds out that the organization, the people he's done his best for…been injured for…bled for…nearly died for…lost his wife for… Those same people _believe_ every word of it." In slow motion Rossi straightened and leaned back in his chair, eyes still holding the doctor's, trying to pull him along the same tortured, emotional path he'd watched Hotch travel. "Can you imagine how much that hurt? How deep the pain went? Can you?"

Fletcher waited, but it seemed the agent had said his piece. It was as opportune a time as any to explore the suspicion that had been flitting about in the psychiatrist's mind ever since he'd seen Rossi's updated contact form. "I can only hope Aaron had help then. He had you, didn't he?"

"He has his whole team…but, yes, mostly me."

The doctor took a preparatory breath. "Did he know that? Or did he think things were…changing?"

"What do you mean by that?" Rossi's voice was sharp. No one had the right to question his devotion and loyalty to Hotch.

Slowly, with all due caution, Fletcher proceeded. "Dave, is it possible that Aaron might have felt like an intruder, because _your_ life was changing? Because you were drawing closer to someone else? Someone outside the workplace?"

Rossi's expression grew thunderous, but then…then the words of flat denial wouldn't come.

In a sudden, illuminating flash, he remembered when his daughter Joy had first entered his life. He remembered finding out, almost too late, that she was boarding a plane; that she would leave in a cloud of disappointment and hurt because she thought her father was rejecting her. A case had just ended. All he could think was _A child! A child! I have a child! A real child!_ He'd asked Hotch if he could take one of the SUVs, his words frantic with need. And Hotch had said yes.

And Hotch had called after him, clueless and worried and ready to help in any way he could.

And Dave had left, had driven into the night without answering. And without looking back.


	10. Distance

Hotch gazed out at the bullpen.

Everyone was gone. It was time to go home.

He didn't want to.

Jack was at soccer practice and was planning on a sleepover with one of his teammates. Aaron had asked if his son would like it if he got off work early and came by to watch. The responding shrug and mumbled 'Whatever' had cut Hotch to the marrow. He'd told himself over the years that he should be prepared for the time when Jack would push him away, but he'd expected that to coincide with adolescence. Considering how much of the boy's early childhood he'd missed thanks to Haley's departure and subsequent participation in Witness Protection, Hotch felt cheated.

He should have been able to enjoy a few more years of boyhood hugs and confidences.

To make this day even worse, Dave was meeting with Dr. Fletcher.

Hotch felt as though he'd been hollowed out and filled with lead.

 _There's no one waiting for me at home. And no reason to stay here. And I hate that I don't know how to fix things._

He'd tried talking to Jack a few more times since his first session with the psychiatrist. The attempts were still exercises in futility. It reminded him of when he'd found out his son was dealing with a bully at school. Then, as now, the boy would mumble that everything was fine. If Hotch pushed, even in the most delicate, gentle manner he could manage, Jack's irritation would surface. He'd insist he wanted to be left alone in a sullen, childish whine that made Aaron catch his breath.

He heard himself in that small, young voice. It was the sound of someone powerless and aching. Someone who felt problems had to be suffered alone…a silent celebration of pain. It was the echo of Hotch's own childhood.

Aaron was very careful about his reactions when that happened. Another parent might have forced the issue. Another parent might have persisted until his son opened up. Those parents would likely be copying the behavior they'd learned from their own mothers and fathers. Hotch didn't have that blueprint.

He only knew about getting hit. Or ridiculed.

Profiler though he was, he hadn't been able to break through or understand why Jack was keeping him out during the bullying episode. _Maybe I can ask that psychiatrist about that. Maybe I can turn the focus onto how I could have helped my son. Maybe it's not too late…_

He dragged his briefcase out and began to pack, although for once there was nothing urgent to take home. It should have been a gift of free time for father-son bonding. Hotch twisted his watch on his wrist so its display wasn't so visible. People say 'Time heals all wounds,' but time felt like the enemy today.

It had never been his friend where Jack was concerned; always running out too quickly.

And now, as the seconds ticked by, he wondered what Dave and the doctor were discussing. _Me. That's what._

Trailing the discomfort of knowing he was the subject of others' conversations, Hotch went home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Fletcher saw Rossi's hesitation.

He reminded himself that this agent wasn't his patient. Had Dave been under analysis, the doctor would have let the moment extend, waiting for, if not epiphany, then at least progress. Now, he went to Rossi's rescue.

"I'm just having a guess here, Dave. Aaron hasn't said anything about feeling abandoned. It's just…" He chewed on his lip for a moment, considering his wording. "It's just that my brief contact with him was more emotional, more explosive, than I expected. It made me think that he isn't making use of any outlets that might be available for the pressures building up inside him. And then I found out the cast of characters in _your_ life had been undergoing some changes, and…" He shrugged, shaking his head. "I thought it might be worth putting the two together."

"Why?" Rossi had recovered, but wasn't putting any effort into adopting a poker face. There wasn't any point. They were both interested in helping Hotch. Blindsided as he felt, Dave hadn't lost sight of the main objective. "Did Aaron say something?"

"No. He didn't mention you until I asked him if he had any close friends. But…"

"But what?"

Fletcher reached back, picking up a file from his desk that bore the FBI's official seal. He extended it toward Rossi. "It's just the standard basics the Bureau keeps on all its agents. No case information. Nothing specific of a medical or financial nature."

Putting his drink down on the broad arm of his chair, Dave accepted the folder and flipped it open, eyes scanning.

After a moment, the doctor prodded. "The contact forms. You changed your emergency contacts."

Frowning, Rossi stared at the evidence that pointed toward something he treasured: a real, blood family; generations of genetic continuity. After a moment his brow smoothed and his shoulders slumped. "I never discussed this with Hotch. He doesn't know and I doubt he'd care who I name. If anything does happen, chances are it'll be in the field and he'll be at my side. So…" Dave's dejected sigh matched his posture. "…so you're saying something in my actions is sending out signals that are telling him to keep his distance?"

"I don't know. As I said, this is just a guess, and I've only talked with Aaron once." If Fletcher had had any doubts about the depth of friendship these two agents shared, it was dispelled by the genuine sorrow in Rossi's eyes. "Look, Dave, it's early in this process. To be frank, I grasp at straws in the beginning. Aaron was so closed off, and even though it was what I'd consider a productive session, what I got from him wasn't voluntary. It was more as if he was so raw he couldn't help but lash out when someone touched where it hurt."

"And you're saying that might be my fault?"

"No. Not at all." The psychiatrist hastened to alleviate any misconceptions. "If this is where the problem…or one of them, at least…lies, then it's in Aaron's perception." He leaned in close again. "You know him. As a profiler and as a friend, you have a clearer vision of who he is; what hurts him most and how he deals with pain. If your life changes are impacting him, he might not even be aware of it on a conscious level."

Rossi reclaimed his drink and sipped it, eyes focused inward. Fletcher waited, giving the agent ample time to process this theory. After a few minutes had elapsed, Dave shook his head. "Hotch knows he can talk to me about anything. Hell, when I came out of retirement I jumped down his throat about having been close-lipped concerning his marital problems. He knows I want him to share his troubles. And he's a top-notch profiler. One of the best at seeing inside the human psyche. If he felt something was wrong…"

"But that's just it," the psychiatrist interrupted. "He might be blind when it comes to his own welfare."

Rossi rubbed his drink-free hand over gritty eyes. This was weighty stuff to wrestle with at the end of a long week. He needed time to think about it. And if this shrink didn't understand that…

"Look, Dave. It's been a full week for me and God knows the FBI isn't an easy place to work. I think we should call it a night. You told me how hurt Aaron is about this entire process to which he's been condemned. He's demonstrated a lot of anger and frustration about it, too…and about the repercussions it's having on his domestic life. All I want is for you to think about how this man you know so well got to the point where he's not just frayed around the edges…he's torn apart. He'll talk to you. I'm not asking you to report back or betray any confidences. But maybe you could encourage your friend to open up to me a little bit. You think you could do that?"

Rossi took a deep breath, releasing it in a slow, measured sigh. "Yeah. I can do that." He downed the remainder of his drink. Both men stood. Dave moved toward the door, the doctor following a step behind.

At the door, Rossi turned back, extending his hand for a parting shake. Fletcher gripped it, taking a last professional measure of Aaron's self-proclaimed best friend and hoping he hadn't crossed any lines that would foster doubt about his having the Unit Chief's best interests in mind.

"Dave? Aaron's looking at this as a punishment, isn't he." Statement, not question. "I tried to tell him it's not. I hope he comes to look at it as an opportunity to heal some of his injuries. I hope he takes advantage of it." Fletcher grimaced. "It might be hard for him to admit it, but he's allowed to get damaged. He's not expected to be indestructible."

Rossi gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Try telling that to his son. Kid thinks he's a superhero."

The doctor hid a frisson of surprise. _So Aaron hasn't told his best friend about the change in his son's attitude toward him. Maybe they're not sharing as much about their private lives as they should._

He felt a small, knot of concern forming on Hotch's behalf.

One agent's family was expanding.

The other's was shrinking.

The distance between them was increasing.

Fletcher hoped it wouldn't get to the point where they drifted so far apart that they lost sight of each other. Something about Rossi's outraged portrait of how hard events had been on Aaron made the psychiatrist think theirs was one of those rare friendships that happens once in a lifetime. And sometimes not at all.

 _And Aaron needs to feel someone is close to him more than ever right now._


	11. Single Syllable

Rossi walked to his car, oblivious.

He was a man trained to be aware of his surroundings. However, he bypassed a truly exceptional street musician whose choice of Italian love songs would normally have garnered a handsome gratuity. He failed to track a sly-looking fellow who was eyeing passersby, searching for a likely mark with a tempting, wallet-filled pocket, or a carelessly held purse. He almost missed the stunning brunette dressed for an evening assignation, judging by her emerald-green, silk sheath and silvery stilettos.

Almost.

At the last minute Dave's eyes darted to the side, drawn by some subliminal radar set to appreciate feminine beauty. He gave himself a wry grin as he continued on his way. _Hayden would_ _ **hate**_ _that._ His ex-wife had kept a close eye on her husband whenever they attended diplomatic soirees. Rossi had never cheated on her, but it seemed he was a collector of visual images. And Paris, with its abundance of fashionable, elegant women, could provide images a-plenty. All you had to do was look.

 _Hayden…_ His grin faded as he slipped behind the wheel of his BMW. _Could my reconnecting with her really be affecting Aaron?_ It was true that they hadn't spent as much time together. Rossi had used accrued vacation that he normally ignored, or tried to give away, to fly west and visit his daughter's family; coincidentally hooking up with his ex along the way. And he did devote a great deal of time to thinking and daydreaming about the new vistas that were opening up to him now that he had relatives.

But Hotch was a big boy. He didn't get jealous. He didn't pout. His eyes had done a slow, vulpine, almond-tilt upward, filled with genuine joy for his friend when Dave had told him of his newfound, familial ties. _But that shrink says it might be subconscious. And I_ _ **have**_ _been in my own little world, trying to decide where I'll go from here._ He shook his head as he pulled away from the curb. _And here I thought I'd cleared the biggest hurdle when Mudge and Hayden took to each other._

As he drove he debated the wisdom of calling Hotch.

 _He knows Fletcher and I met. He's probably stewing, floundering in all kinds of imaginary developments. But the surest way to subvert the doc's intentions to work on Aaron's perspective, would be to call the boy and report just that. It'd sound like we're saying 'It's all in your mind.' And no one wants to hear that._ Rossi had no illusions about the small, rebellious streak that made his Unit Chief stray outside Bureau lines. _If I tell him he needs an attitude adjustment, it'll probably make him resist every step of the way during every single one of these mandatory sessions._ He sighed. _But I bet all he's thinking about is my meeting with his psychiatrist._

So, for the same reason Dave had decided to end the suspense and the turmoil inside his friend, and call Fletcher to set up his own appointment, he now pulled out his phone and speed-dialed. His grin returned as he waited for Hotch to pick up.

 _Now if I were truly replacing the poor guy, I'd have made Hayden or Joy number one on the speed-dial. So, rest easy, Hotch…you're still number one in my day-to-day life._

XXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch went home and made dinner.

Scrambled eggs. Salad. Tea.

He left it all on the kitchen counter, except for the tea. The tepid cup accompanied him into the living room. He sat in the growing dusk and sipped without tasting, and tried not to think of anything at all.

Talk about mission impossible.

 _I wonder what Jack's having for dinner…I wonder if Dave's done talking to Dr. Fletcher…I wonder if anyone'd notice if I went back to the office and found some paperwork…spent the night there…maybe the whole weekend…_

The strident buzz of his phone was a welcome interruption…until Dave's voice came over the connection. Then, the Unit Chief's anxiety ratcheted up several notches. _It must be something bad…Fletcher must've said something really concerning and he wants to talk to me about it…_ Yet Hotch couldn't decipher anything from the older man's even, normal tone.

"Hey, Aaron. What'cha up to?"

There was an unaccustomed silence as a myriad of possible answers fizzed and bubbled in the Unit Chief's brain. To Rossi's credit, he read his friend's frustration, confusion and dread in his lack of response. _There's probably a soupcon of loneliness in there, too. And even if it's not my fault, at least I can help with that particular demon._ He opted to rescue Hotch from the quandary of conflicts he knew must be tying the man's tongue.

"Look, Aaron, you know I had my meeting with that doc. He's a good guy. Hell of a lot nicer than the one _I_ got sent to who beat me over the head for…how did he put it?...Oh, yeah: 'Tomcatting around the Bureau.'" Rossi snorted. "Anyway, nice as he was, I don't wanna end the week on that note. So, you busy? Wanna do something? Go somewhere?"

Dave's rambling had accomplished its purpose: allowing Hotch to dig out of whatever tangle he had brooded himself into. It gave him a chance to organize his thoughts. "What'd he say, Rossi? About me. What can you tell me?"

The older man wasn't surprised. He'd assumed Hotch had been mulling and worrying and building suppositions to a frightening degree. Of course the first thing out of his mouth would be a demand for information. _Goes for the jugular like an attack dog. Good boy…Good boy…Don't bite your trainer…_ Which clued Dave in on how to reply.

He gave a rather convincing, world-weary sigh. "Relax, Aaron. I think more than anything he was curious about the guy who brought you into the BAU in the first place." Rossi's voice adopted a faux-Chinese lilt. "He had seen Grasshopper…he needed to see Grasshopper's Master…"

"Cut it out, Dave."

"Wha'd'you want me to say, Aaron? He's a shrink. He's curious about you. He wants to see the kind of people you hang with."

An extended interval of quiet fell, filled with something Rossi privately considered Qualified Angst.

"You gonna tell me anything more? Anything important?"

Dave's sigh was redolent. Redolent of all the sorrows and distrust and hurt he knew his friend had borne. Redolent of wisdom; the kind that comes when you've lived a long time and have seen both ugliness and beauty…and know they balance out, no matter how much you wish the beautiful souls in your life could win whatever race they're in. "Hotch. I'm not Reid. I can't reproduce conversations word for word. Can't parrot them back like a damn eidetic. You're just gonna hafta trust me. You can…can't you?"

Silent breaths, then… "Yeah. I guess so… Sure…of course I can."

Rossi thanked all the Roman gods by whom his ancestors swore. "Well, then. What'd'ya say we go out somewhere? Unless…," he added, recalling Hotch's paternal responsibilities, "…unless you and Jack have plans?"

"Jack."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a statement. It was a world of hurt packed into one, solitary syllable.

The entire afternoon had primed Rossi to be hyper-aware of his friend's stoic, stolid nature that likely hid a maelstrom, according to the psychiatrist. And in that single word…the name of his son…Dave heard chaos. _Oh, no…Oh, no…What have I missed?...What have I left you to suffer alone?_

"Aaron?"

And again, it was just a single, solitary word. A name. But it carried all the strength of a large heart that could accommodate more than a new family and an ex-wife.

Maybe, just maybe, it could shelter one man's shattered spirit.

"Aaron, I'm coming over."


	12. Hearts at Risk

Rossi pulled up before the townhouse Hotch had rented when he'd become Jack's sole guardian.

It didn't have the memories or stains of either the house he and Haley had shared, or the apartment where Foyet had liberated a great deal of Aaron's blood. It wasn't exactly a jolly place, but it did have nice landscaping. It also had bars on the windows and a very reliable security system.

 _He's never going to really feel safe again_ , Rossi thought as he exited his car. _Probably felt safest at the BAU, and then they had to go and arrest him. Now he doesn't even have that as a refuge…something I just realized._ Despite the psychiatrist having pointed out that Hotch's troubles weren't attributable to anyone else, Dave felt a frisson of guilt as he strode to the front door. _I bet there are a lot of things I haven't considered; a whole grab-bag of unfortunate fallout from those stupid accusations. Taken on their own, they might not seem so dire, but add them into the mix of what the poor guy's already suffered and…and they might feel insurmountable to him._

Rossi tried to erase his grim expression as he rang the doorbell.

He was partially successful.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"What's wrong?" Tommy Delgado frowned at his soccer teammate.

"Nothing." Jack Hotchner mumbled his response, choosing instead to concentrate on unrolling his sleeping bag beside Tommy's bed.

"Yeah, there is." Young Mr. Delgado had no qualms about pushing for answers. His sensibilities weren't as honed and cautious as Jack's father's were. "You've been acting weird for a while. Why?"

"Have not."

"Have too." Tommy waited for his friend to say something. This kind of ping-pong one-upmanship was only fun if both parties participated. Jack wasn't holding up his end. He hadn't done too well at practice either. "Why'd you let Randy get that goal past you today?"

No answer as Jack scrunched deeper between down-filled layers.

Tommy flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling as he pondered the mysteries he felt sure were surrounding his friend. "Coach didn't even yell at you." His voice lowered, suffused with a sense of injustice. "If it'd been me, he would've yelled plenty. Never yells at _you_."

"That's 'cause he feels sorry for me. Now shut up about it."

"Sorry? Why should anyone feel sorry for _you_?"

"Shut up, Tommy." Jack turned on his side, hoping to emphasize his reluctance to pursue this subject matter by presenting his back to his teammate.

"No. Why should anyone feel sorry for _you_?" The boyish voice scaled upward, determined to ferret out an answer. "Why should…"

"Boys!" The bedroom door cracked open, revealing the elder Mr. Delgado's mock-stern visage. "No more talking. Go to sleep. Now!" The door eased shut after a few beats; just long enough to assure Tommy's father that his message had been received.

Exasperated, the son of the house sighed. "Wish my dad was cool like yours."

Jack whispered into his pillow. "No you don't…"

The boys drifted off to sleep. One envisioning his portly, accountant father wielding a firearm and racing to the rescue the way he imagined Mr. Hotchner, the FBI agent, did.

The other's last impression before slumber claimed him was the echoing memory of handcuffs ratcheting around his father's wrists…and the undercurrent of fear he'd heard in Daddy's voice that gave the lie to his shouted assurances that everything was okay.

It blended with other sounds hovering on the edge of recall. Gunshots. Battering and scrabbling. Things smashing and thudding. Distant, but they had the taint of something dirty and desperate and very, very final.

The sounds were beginning to emerge and were demanding his attention more and more…

…ever since Daddy had been forced to his knees and taken away at gunpoint.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"So you gonna offer a man a drink or what?"

Rossi didn't particularly want more alcohol; the libation at Dr. Fletcher's had been enough. But the request prodded Hotch away from the doorway, allowing Dave to enter.

"Yeah. Sure." It was the small, distracted voice of a man whose mind was engaged with concerns more pressing than social niceties.

Rossi followed Hotch into the kitchen. He took note of the plate of eggs congealing on the counter; the salad wilting at its side in a show of solidarity; a demonstration in protest against meager appetites. While Hotch busied himself retrieving glasses from cabinets and ice cubes from the freezer, Dave surveyed the sad, uneaten dinner.

"Not hungry, Aaron?"

"Huh? Uh…no. Guess not."

"Wanna tell me why?"

Ice rattled into the tumbler. Liquid sloshed in after it. Hotch turned to hand the drink to his guest. "You're the one who talked to Fletcher. Maybe you should tell me."

Rossi sipped, openly studying the younger man over the rim of his glass. His expression grew wry. "Yeah. 'Cause you're such an open book, that anyone can read you, right?"

Still at the counter, recapping the liquor bottle, Hotch's head dropped. "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm just not really in the mood for company."

"Then I guess it's a good thing Jack's not here?" Rossi watched his friend's back stiffen. It had been easy to read the child's absence. Add that to the hollow way Aaron had said his son's name over the phone, setting off all Dave's alarms… _And maybe he_ _ **is**_ _an open book when it comes to being a father…or to those who know him best…_ Another unwelcome pang of guilt struck, resonating like a heavy bell through Rossi's conscience. _What else haven't we talked about over the last few months, Aaron?_

"Jack's at a friend's. Sleepover."

"Good. It'll give us a chance to talk. We don't get to do that so much anymore."

Hotch had been giving his visitor glancing looks. Now he turned his full attention on him. Rossi's mouth turned grim at the corners, noting the misery in the younger man's eyes, but he held himself in check. He might be able to read the Unit Chief more than most, but if one wanted to access the layers that went deeper than the visible…well…it took patience and persistence. And sometimes something a little harsher was required.

"Come on, Dave. You just came from Fletcher, didn't you? So you either want to talk about something he said, or he asked you to find out something and you're on a mission." Hotch turned his back, picking up the plate with his neglected dinner, dumping it into the garbage.

"Alright. That's enough." Rossi's voice rang with an authority he seldom used now that his one-time protégé was his boss. Still, it hooked into Hotch, making him go still. "I'm not keeping any secrets from you, Aaron." Dave's brows drew downward. "Turn around and look at me." He counted it a tiny victory when Hotch complied, albeit with the reluctance of an adolescent.

"Now the only thing that shrink asked me to do…No. Not even 'asked.' He _hoped_ that if I had the chance to meet him and form my own opinion, that it'd be favorable and that I'd pass that on to you so you'd feel a little less trapped and maybe actually salvage something good from these sessions you have to attend if you want to keep working and being upwardly mobile in the Bureau. Well…" His frown deepened. "I said _look_ at me." Rossi raised his chin and took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, returning Hotch's gaze with steady purpose. _I'm still your elder and in some ways your superior. Show some respect._

"If you want to wallow in your own angst when people are standing by, ready to help you…go ahead. But don't think that'll solve whatever's going on with Jack."

Direct hit. Hotch's legendary Stare faltered. He blinked. Everyone knew Hotch _never_ blinked. He was famous for it. _Gotcha, you poor, miserable son of a…_

The steel left Rossi's tone. It melted into the comforting warmth of velvet. "I know something's wrong. This has nothing to do with any treatment the Bureau mandated. This is me, and this is you. Talk to me, Aaron. 'Cause if you don't, it'll break an old, Italian guy's heart. You don't wanna do that."

Hotch dropped his eyes to the floor, features blank.

It was like watching the tide slowly recede from a beach, transforming it from one kind of landscape into another. Bitterness and challenge drained out of the Unit Chief's expression. He chewed his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth. When he looked up at Dave again, his dark eyes had gone soft and sad.

"No. I don't want to break your heart, Dave."

"Good. Then tell me what's wrong."

"I…I think I might have broken Jack's. I think I might have broken everything."

Rossi watched moisture gather in his friend's eyes, and was glad of it.

Sad Hotch was so much easier to reach than angry Hotch.


	13. Home

Hotch hadn't poured himself a drink.

His own glass suffered the same fate his dinner had, languishing on the counter, a victim of neglect. So Rossi pressed his barely-tasted tumbler into the younger man's hands.

"You need this more than I do." He slipped an arm around Aaron's shoulders and steered him toward the living room; specifically, the living room sofa…a manly affair of faux leather that Haley would never have allowed in her house.

Dave suspected that Hotch's choices of décor and furnishings for his and Jack's new home had more to do with distancing the both of them from their past, than with aesthetic preference. Still, the deep cushions served a purpose. He pushed the Unit Chief down, placed one hand in the center of the man's chest and pressed him all the way to the couch's back to make it clear he should stay where he'd been put. Dave took a seat to one side, angling himself so Hotch's profile was in his direct line of vision.

"So you think you've broken 'everything.' Explain."

Aaron's mouth opened and closed. His brow furrowed. His mouth performed an encore, again opening and closing without producing sound. He looked more at sea than anyone bearing the title of Unit Chief had a right to.

Rossi shook his head. "What do I hafta do to you? Call in some of my Long Island buddies who know how to make a guy talk?"

Dave thought Hotch's attempt to respond to his gallows' humor with a sickly lip-twitch that was supposed to mimic a grin, was one of the saddest things he'd ever seen. It made him study his friend very closely indeed. _He's not uncooperative. He's overwhelmed. Doesn't know where to begin._

A thread of dismay wove its way into Rossi's heart. _He was like this after that SOB Peter Lewis got to him._ The senior agent took a moment to breathe and remind himself that this time no one had been administering drugs to an unwilling Hotch. No one had been playing games with his psyche. _No. This time he's doing it to himself. Maybe that's what Fletcher sees. Maybe that's what the Bureau wants to be sure_ _ **won't**_ _happen on the job. But it's just a matter of trying to be strong for too long and of feeling too alone. I can help with that kind of thing. Find the key. The key that'll open a way to all of it…Like a Pandora's box; once unlocked, all the ills will spill out._

"You said you think you broke Jack's heart." Rossi's words were as gentle as a breeze. Privately, he was wound tight, remembering what he knew of Hotch's childhood, remembering the psych evals and background checks when he'd championed Aaron's entry into the heady ranks of the BAU. _His own father was violent. Has he slipped under all this pressure? Has he done something to Jack reminiscent of his own upbringing? Is that kind of irretrievable damage what he means by 'everything' being broken now?_ "What did you do to hurt Jack? Tell me, Aaron. Just say it and I'll help you. We'll make it better. Tell me…"

Hotch stared at the drink clasped in his hands and decided to make an effort. He _was_ overwhelmed. But for his son's sake he needed to find his way out of the maze that had grown up around him over the last few years, becoming especially convoluted and impenetrable during the last few months. He pulled from the most painful center of it all; from the part that was always just a breath away from his thoughts. "Jack won't talk to me. Not really. And…" His throat felt dry, making his voice crack like an adolescent's. "…and he hasn't touched me since…since…" The agony had been accumulating for too long. It finally caught up with him. Hotch's eyes pooled.

"Since…?" Rossi prodded with the utmost care.

"Since they arrested me. In front of him. That's when everything changed." Aaron raised his head, fixing the older man with a look of pure tragedy. "Why? I didn't do anything wrong. They know that now. _Jack_ knows that now. I did everything I could to make it right. And I did… _we_ did. So…why? What did I do?"

"Well…" Dave sat back, blinking. "That's what we'll have to figure out."

"I've gone over it a hundred times. I don't know what I did wrong."

Rossi placed a tentative hand on Hotch's knee. "Maybe two heads'll be better than one." The Unit Chief's lips trembled. Clearly, he didn't think Dave would be able to decode what he himself had been worrying at like a dog trying to crack a particularly tough bone. A bone that was winning the struggle.

Rossi felt the air go out of him when confronted with the utter hopelessness in Aaron's eyes. He reached for what he hoped might be a fresh angle. "Hey…If two heads can't make any inroads on it, then maybe _three_?"

"Three?"

Dave gave a slow, cautious nod. "That doc. Fletcher."

Hotch's dark eyes blinked, then bored into Rossi's. "I'm not letting him talk to Jack. No way." He trained his angry gaze on an imagined, inner vision. "I'm not dragging my son to see a DOJ shrink. That's final."

"Aaron, I wasn't suggesting that." The only reply was a tightening of the younger man's lips, an increase in his respiration as his body reacted to what he interpreted on some primal level to be a threat to his child. "I only meant that discussing Jack could be a useful tool for _you_."

Hotch's shallow, rapid breaths calmed just enough for Rossi to think he could push the idea a little deeper. "If it's easier to share your concerns as a father than it is to talk about yourself, then maybe that's a good place to start. You can judge how Fletcher responds. If you agree with his viewpoint on Jack, it might be worth exploring things closer to home; things about how all this affected _you_. Jack's not the only one who got hurt when you were arrested. It hit you, too."

"I know it did. It's just…I just…"

"You don't know where to begin; where to start the process of unraveling 'cause there are so many, many knots, and you don't know which one to pick first." Rossi's sympathy for his friend's situation was palpable.

Hotch felt it. He looked into the deep warmth of the older man's eyes and saw it.

And one of the smallest, newest knots inside Aaron loosened just a little.

He wondered if maybe Dave's appointment with the psychiatrist might have been a good thing after all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mr. Delgado was first out of bed when the screams began.

With adrenaline-fueled urgency he rocketed from his own slumber and charged down the hall toward his son's room with a selfless bravery that would have made Tommy put his own dad right up there with the fabled Mr. Hotchner.

Mrs. Delgado was mere steps behind, but even she, with maternal instincts at full volume, couldn't keep up.

Tommy's father burst through the door, crouching, teeth bared. Anything or anyone endangering his child would pay. It didn't matter that he spent his days behind a desk, crunching numbers. When it came to his family, he was a force to be reckoned with. He'd rip any intruder's throat open; he'd tear them limb from limb with his bare hands and consequences be damned.

It was harder to know how to handle the small, frightened boy huddled in his sleeping bag, his disheveled confusion obviously the shredded remnants of a nightmare.

Delgado's own son was bolt-upright in bed, eyes wide as he saw a new side of his friend Jack.

The man grasped the situation. Heart pounding, he let his wife swish past him. In his estimation, this was more a mother's specialty, requiring the kind of gentle perception he associated with feminine strength. He was content to lean against the doorjamb, trading looks with Tommy while his adrenaline drained.

"Jack? Honey?" Mrs. Delgado enveloped the boy with the sort of maternal hug that had faded from his memory. Kneeling at Jack's side, she rocked him, murmuring. "It was just a dream…just a dream…it's gone now…just a dream…"

"I'm okay…I'm okay…" Embarrassment began to supplant terror with cringe-worthy waves of chagrin for having disturbed the entire household. Such a babyish thing to do!

"Do you wanna talk about it, sweetheart?"

"No. Sorry I woke everyone up. Sorry." The images were already fading, not that he was making any special effort to hang onto them. But there was nothing he wanted to share.

She could still feel the boy shivering. "What can we do to make it better, Jack?" The idea sprang up like inspiration. "Do you want to go home?"

"NO!" His own vehemence surprised him. "No…I'm okay…really…I'm fine…" He tried to sound like his words: okay…fine…really…

But with a surge of horrified realization, Jack understood that home was where the monsters always found you.

Home was where they came in and knocked down all the safe barriers. Killed them. Handcuffed them. Made them disappear from your life.

Home couldn't keep the bad things out.

There was nothing safe about home.


	14. Resolved

Rossi left Hotch's house at a rather late hour.

As he made his way to his car he reviewed their visit. He felt he'd planted some useful seeds in Aaron's mind. Hopefully they would reach fruition in a way that might bring father and son back together.

He also made sure before he left that he gave Hotch a longer-than-usual hug. When the younger man had made a move to disengage himself, Rossi had cinched him in closer. "Not yet, Aaron. I haven't hugged you in a very long time."

"I know."

"Friendly affection is important."

"I know."

"Think over what I said about talking to Fletcher. Open up a little. Might help. Won't hurt."

"I know."

Dave had to bite back the other words he wanted to say. _Talk to your son, too. Even if he pushes you away. Even if he doesn't listen. He'll know you're trying. You have to let him hurt you and still make sure he knows you're by his side…_ _ **on**_ _his side. It's part of being a father._ As true as they rang in Rossi's heart, he didn't feel he'd earned the right to have such intimate views on being a parent. After all, he'd missed out on raising his own daughter. She'd landed in his life a full-grown woman. His opinions on how to be a dad sprang from emotion, not from experience.

So he left them unsaid.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Do you think we should talk to Jack's father?"

Mrs. Delgado stirred pancake batter while her husband made a pot of coffee. Extra strong. Neither of them had been able to get back to sleep after their little houseguest had routed them from their bed with truly terrifying screams.

"Nah. Kids get nightmares. 'S normal."

Tommy's mother shook her head in slow, persistent denial as she gazed into the mixture thick with blueberries. "Not like that. You didn't hold him. He was shaking. He was really scared."

"Let's see how he is this morning. But…" Mr. Delgado tried to stifle an epic yawn. "…don't make a big deal about it. It'll just embarrass the boy."

"Mmmmm." It was a noncommittal response that told the man of the house his wife would do whatever she deemed necessary, embarrassment be damned. He was fine with that. Her judgment when it came to childrearing was one of the pillars of their family upon which he relied without reservation.

Still, little Jack Hotchner was different.

He'd become friends with their Tommy after his mother had been killed. The story had been in the newspapers and on TV, but the Delgados were careful to keep such things from their son. They couldn't protect him from everything, but the grisly details weren't something a child should have to know. It wasn't until Tommy made a remark about Jack saying his father had a lot of scars that Mr. Delgado made the connection between another news item about a horrific attack on an FBI agent in his own home. He wasn't sure about the agent's name, but... his face had paled. He'd googled Aaron Hotchner and found a remarkable number of hits.

 _Oh, dear God. That poor little boy. No mother and a father who has to be traumatized in the bargain._

They'd kept an eye on Jack at first. He was polite, witty when he wished, smart, honest, and kind. A more suitable, likeable companion for their son couldn't be found. He was also extremely reserved, covering up whenever the inevitable small hurts and slights of boyhood found him. All in all, an admirable, but close-mouthed, young man.

Yet that scream had been born of pure terror.

Satisfied that the coffee could now proceed on its own, Mr. Delgado glanced toward his wife. "I'll go get the boys up."

"Mmmmm." A small line between Mrs. Delgado's brows bespoke worry that wouldn't fade until she was sure little Jack Hotchner was as 'okay' as he'd claimed. Since the child didn't talk much, she decided to put her faith in his appetite. If he showed healthy appreciation of her pancakes and bacon, she'd take it as a sign that her husband was right and it was just your usual, run-of-the-mill nightmare that had set the boy on edge.

Jack Hotchner was indeed his father's son. He was a very observant young man. He was hyper-aware of Mrs. Delgado's scrutiny. He didn't want the amount of breakfast she piled on his plate.

But he ate it just to please her.

XXXXXXXXX

It was a thoroughly un-enjoyable weekend for Hotch.

After Rossi left, he paced in his empty townhouse. When habit dictated he should go to bed, he heard imaginary sounds of invasion each time he was on the edge of sleep. When he finally did drift off, the specter of Jack's scream catapulted him into sweaty, panicked wakefulness. He stared into the dark, glad that his was the only beating heart in the house; grateful that the terror he'd heard was only in his own mind, not in his son's.

If Jack had been home, Aaron knew he would have raced to the boy's room, startling him for no good reason, and likely adding to whatever grievances his son was stockpiling against him.

When Jack called and asked if he could stay another night at Tommy's, that they had plans for an evening-long battle of video games, Hotch hated to admit he was a little relieved. Exhausted and peevish, he didn't trust himself. He was walking on quicksand as it was, unsure of what he'd done to alienate the most important person in his life. He dreaded worsening the situation by saying something snappish or terse. He gave Jack permission and then asked to speak to one of Tommy's parents. Southern gentleman that he was, Aaron wanted to touch bases with his son's hosts to make sure he wasn't imposing.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Mr. Hotchner?"

"Yes. Mr. Delgado?"

"Please. Call me Tony."

"I'm Aaron. I wanted to thank you for having Jack over."

A warm chuckle eased any doubts Hotch might have entertained concerning his son's welcome. "He and Tommy are thick as thieves. Jack's a great kid…"

Hotch's professional ear caught the unspoken 'but.' Anxiety lanced through his stomach, drying his throat and speeding his heart rate. "Is everything okay? Did Jack do something?"

"No, no. Like I said, he's great. It's just…I don't think it's anything, but my wife got a little worried. You know how moms can get…"

"What?" Aaron felt as though he were choking in his effort not to shout. _Tell me! Tell me what's wrong! I have more right to know than anyone! Say it!_

"Well, he had a little nightmare. Gave us a bit of a fright at first."

"Is he okay? Should I come over?" _Jack didn't mention a thing when he spoke to me. He's keeping me out._

"No! Look, Mr. Hotchn…uh…Aaron, I didn't mean to worry you. My wife just thought you should know. Jack's fine. I don't think he even remembers what it was about."

"Did he say anything about it at the time?"

"No…" Mr. Delgado caught himself before saying anything impolitic. _No…kid didn't have to. I figured it was, you know, something to do with all the blood and murder and mayhem you guys have been through._

Yet again, Hotch thought he detected a hesitancy fraught with meaning and implied blame. At least, that's how his natural tendency to assume guilt interpreted the pause. After a moment of heavy silence, he signed off, thanking Mr. Delgado again, and sounding distracted.

He wandered about the house, finding himself drawn to Jack's room and feeling a certain inevitability about it. He sat on the twin bed with its Star Wars sheets and pillowcase, gazing at the characters that peopled his son's fantasies. He ran a hand over the bright colors.

 _Super-heroes. Larger than life. That's what he used to think I was. I knew it wouldn't last; knew he'd outgrow it. But have I become a villain? One of the bad guys? Someone scary? Someone he's ashamed of?_

By the next morning, Hotch had resolved to take Rossi's advice and talk to Dr. Fletcher about Jack, as openly and honestly as he could. It would be hard to do. He'd have to fight his own taciturn, stoic nature and bare his soul to a painful degree.

But if it helped his son, he'd sacrifice every ounce of the privacy he held so dear.

The only thing he could imagine being harder would be talking to Jack himself, and hearing that Daddy was one of the Bad Guys.


	15. Blank Epiphany

"Did you have a good time?"

Sunday evening. Hotch watched Jack drag his sleeping bag and backpack up the steps and over the threshold of their front door. Mr. Delgado had dropped the boy off. He'd ducked his head, catching Aaron's eye through the passenger side window. Hotch read the man's smile and thumbs-up before he drove off as a sign that he considered the nightmare episode over. Water under the bridge. _Blood-red water. A bridge where we're on different shores, and Jack's looking across the expanse at someone who's becoming a stranger._

"Jack? How was it at Tommy's?"

"Fine."

Aaron tensed all his core muscles. It helped him feel as though he were keeping his pain corralled. But he wondered how much longer he could stand this. Each time Jack rebuffed him, his heart cracked a little more, and a little more, and a little more, and at some point it would break and all the meaning and love he thought he'd built his life upon would drain out. He would be a husk; a husk of something that no longer had a purpose on this good earth.

"Only fine? Who won the video game battle?"

"No one."

"No one?"

"We tied."

Hotch took a deep, controlled breath. "But you had fun?"

Jack shrugged. "It was okay."

"Well, I hope you thanked Tommy's parents for having you."

"Sure."

"Are you hungry? Wanna go out and get something? Pizza?"

Jack paused and looked up at his father. Hotch held his breath. For a moment it looked as though the boy would say something; something of substance. His small shoulders squared as he tilted his head back to make eye contact. He blinked. But then, his posture slumped. His head dropped. He resumed his trek toward his room, sleepover gear in tow.

"Not hungry."

Aaron felt a sharp stab of pain in his stomach. "Jack, did I do something wrong?"

Again, the child stopped, giving his father a long, considering look over his shoulder. "No."

"But _something's_ wrong…isn't it?"

The son's expression was thoughtful. At last he met his father's eyes once more. "I don't know."

Aaron could feel the hopeful jolt in his chest. It was progress. It was something. "You know you can talk to me about anything, Jack. Anything." Even as the words passed his lips, Hotch recognized them as the same lame offer he'd made when his child was being bullied.

Now, as then, Jack snubbed him. "I'm fine."

Hotch wasn't surprised, but he was bitterly disappointed. His thoughts sped, marveling at how his profiling and interviewing skills fell by the wayside when the subject was his own son. Love and self-doubt wrapped around him like tentacles, keeping his professional tactics squeezed tight and useless.

Everything fell still inside him.

In a moment of crystal clarity, Aaron's mind flashed on an image of William Fletcher, asking him to talk, looking so hopeful that he might. A new wave of guilt washed over him as something Rossi had said echoed its way out of the past. _You're no good to anyone if you're miserable…_

And suddenly his ability to compartmentalize deserted him. The talent for locking away pain and grief that had developed as a survival skill during a battered childhood, and that had been honed to near perfection on the job, faltered. The walls inside that kept all manner of monsters penned…collapsed.

Feeling disconnected, Hotch moved like a somnambulist. He went to his study and closed the door. After an uncertain amount of time spent shivering and glassy-eyed, he pulled out his phone. Hands shaking, it took him a few attempts before he got the number right.

"Dr. Fletcher, it's Aaron Hotchner…. No, I'm not okay…. Can we move my next appointment up? Tomorrow would be good." He listened to the warm concern in the psychiatrist's voice. The doctor's tone did more to calm him and pull him back than the offer to see him immediately, if he was in crisis.

The term 'in crisis' hit home.

Hotch hesitated, his inner dialogue slow, slogging its way out of a brain that felt filled with gelatinous shock. _'In crisis' is for people who are a danger to themselves or others. That's not me. That's_ _ **not**_ _me. I'm confused and I need time, but…no, not 'in crisis.'_

"No, Doctor. Tomorrow will be fine. I'm…I'm sorry to bother you. I'll see you at nine. Thanks…Bye."

Aaron closed the connection and remained behind the door of his study, trying to think. It was difficult. His cognitive processes seemed to be staging a full rebellion.

 _But there's no rush. I can sit here all night. Maybe I will…_

XXXXXXXXX

Fletcher lost no time accessing his files on Agent Hotchner.

When he found the contact information…in case of emergency…his tone was calm, but firm.

It was the voice he used when time might be of the essence, but circumstances were unclear. There was no reason to panic, yet every reason to act.

"Mr. Rossi, this is Dr. William Fletcher. I just had a call from your friend Aaron. Would you be able to drop by his home? I think he might appreciate your company."

XXXXXXXXXXX

When the knock came at the front door, it was loud.

Not your polite request for entrance. More like a persistent demand. It jarred Hotch out of his glazed reverie. Still feeling disjointed and clumsy, he left his study, glanced toward Jack's room to be sure the boy's door was still closed, and went to see who might be making such an importunate assault on his door.

After the urgent knocking, it didn't quite jive to see Rossi leaning against the jamb looking studiedly casual. Also at odds with the older man's relaxed posture were his eyes. Sharp. Discerning. Laser-focused.

"Dave? Did you forget something?"

"Yeah. This." The force of the embrace drove the breath from Hotch's lungs. Rossi's chuckle rumbled beside his ear.

"Sorry, Aaron. Don't mean to suffocate you, but I guess I wasn't quite done with that last hug."


	16. Quiet Company

Jack rubbed his sore stomach.

The muscles had clenched hard at the sound of someone banging on the front door. There was also a burning sensation he couldn't define. Jack was too young to know what caused either symptom. He only knew his tummy hurt inside and out.

Both pains had eased when he'd heard Rossi's voice with its kind cadences addressing his father as the two men made their way into the living room. At that point, the boy's tension lessened. His heart was still tripping along at a Texas two-step, and for a moment he hadn't been able to breathe, but it was getting better.

He stretched out on his bed and stared into the deepening dusk.

He didn't know what was happening to him, but as Daddy had guessed… _something_ was wrong. It might have something to do with noises, but he wasn't sure. Because it wasn't _every_ noise. The banging on the door was a bad one. Something about the sound of a soccer ball being kicked really, _really_ hard, especially if the ball wasn't quite inflated enough…that was a bad one, too. The sounds of things falling. Not everything; just some things. And crashing noises. Again, not all; just some.

People were starting to notice, too.

Tommy Delgado had said he was off his game at soccer practice. Robbie Quentin had been going for a goal. He'd kicked the ball with all he had, grunting with the effort as toe connected with slightly flaccid rubber. And goalie Jack had gone statue-still. It was only for a moment, but in that small interval, his body had refused to move and his mind endured its own kind of paralysis, refusing to give any commands, opting to go blank instead.

Coach had noticed, too. Jack was sure of it, because there'd been a look of profound sadness on the man's face. And Tommy was right: if it had been anyone else, Coach would've given him something to think about, and forcefully enough to remember it until the next practice.

It was all very confusing.

Too confusing to explain to anyone…even Daddy.

Maybe _especially_ Daddy.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi stayed with Hotch for hours.

Dave noted his friend's mental lethargy. He might have taken it for ordinary distraction coupled with lack of sleep, except for the phone call from Dr. Fletcher that had prompted this visit in the first place. Under the circumstances, Rossi didn't pry. He stayed close and waited to see if Aaron would find words to communicate whatever he was feeling, whatever had concerned the psychiatrist. It certainly looked as though the man were mulling something with all his cognitive abilities, even if they were dragging a bit.

It didn't happen. Whatever mental maze the Unit Chief wandered refused to give him up.

After a long, companionable silence during which Hotch's brow remained furrowed and his eyes downcast, Rossi stood up from where they were seated on the living room couch. He gave Aaron's shoulder a gentle, back-handed slap. "Hey. Bedtime. Tomorrow's a workday for us and a school day for Jack. Time to pack it in."

"Whu…?" Hotch looked up at the older man, blinking. He made a visible effort to focus on the here and now. "Uh…yeah…uh, Dave, about that…I'm gonna be late. I need to…I'm gonna…" Too much was colliding in his mind. The words wouldn't stick together in their proper order.

Rossi lifted Aaron to his feet with a gentle hand under his elbow. "Go get ready for bed. Just tell me what I can do to help you."

Eyes dark with gratitude, Hotch gave himself permission to lean on someone older, perhaps wiser, and definitely in better mental shape at the moment. "I have to go see that doc, Fletcher, tomorrow. Jack'll need a ride to school. Maybe J.J…."

"I'll take the kid to school, Aaron. You go do what you have to do. I'll make your excuses at work, and we'll see you when we see you." Rossi made his assurances as he escorted his friend toward his bedroom, still in control by virtue of a firmly-gripped elbow.

At the doorway, Hotch hesitated, looking as though he were trying to puzzle something out. "Dave, why did you come over tonight?"

"I told you: I hadn't finished that hug." The senior agent worked to keep an indulgent grin at bay. Seeing Aaron so uncharacteristically unable to link things together was like watching Joy's son, his grandson, struggle to figure out the old 'got your nose' ploy. A little sad and a little adorable. _But in Hotch's case, more sad than anything else. So don't smile…don't smile…don't…_

"But you've been here a long time. Hours."

"Yeah, well, maybe I needed a little company this evening."

"We didn't really talk."

Rossi sighed. "I know you enough so I don't need words, Aaron." He turned Hotch around and propelled him into the bedroom. "Now go brush your teeth and get some sleep. I'm gonna crash in the guestroom." He finally let his grin out of hiding. "Gotta take Jack to school in a couple hours, ya know."

 _And wanna make sure you keep that doctor's appointment._ _No way are you thinking straight if you were gonna ask J.J. and Henry to come by and get Jack._

 _Not after last time._


	17. Sad Dad

Rossi felt a little bleary-eyed the next morning, but he still thought he was more on top of things than either of the Hotchner boys.

He oversaw lunch-making, and backpack-packing, and briefcase-packing, feeling like a patriarch marshaling his troops. "Jack, you have all your books? Your homework?...Aaron, you sure your phone's charged? Got your insurance card?...Both of you have pocket change, just in case?" Dave had to admit he rather enjoyed herding Hotchners. He bit his lip to keep from grinning at how sober and dutiful this little family was as they went about morning preparations. It was all pleasant domesticity until they were at the point of their respective departures.

Rossi held the car door open for Jack, who looked somehow oppressed and downtrodden more than could be accounted for by the weight of his backpack. Hotch looked equally forlorn, standing by with sad eyes trained on his son; eyes that reminded Dave of Mudgie when the dog knew he was being left behind and also knew, in the preternatural way canines do, that his master was going somewhere fun like the woods or a lake. Didn't matter if it was because a body had been found; a dog could still romp and maybe find a soulmate who might also enjoy playing with sticks and chasing squirrels.

"C'mon, boys. We don't wanna be late." Rossi gave Jack a nudge. "Go say goodbye to your father."

A quick glance and a sullen "Bye" stunned Dave for a moment, even though Aaron had said that Jack was keeping his distance. He'd seen these two part from each other before. It was usually hugs and 'I love you' and last minute terms of affection. And always, always, _always_ Hotch would tell his son how proud he was of him. Rossi had a feeling it was something the Unit Chief had hungered to hear during his own boyhood. Now he was making sure Jack wouldn't grow up starved for a father's pride.

Aaron's lean features held a different kind of hunger now. One that made Dave grimace. _He was famished for his father's affection and now he craves his son's. It's not fair that one man should be consigned to a life of such emotional deprivation. He's just a big, aching void until all this gets sorted out._ Unable to stand idle while his friend was hurting, the older man strode over to Hotch and gave him the hug he wished Jack had.

After a moment he held Aaron at arm's length and narrowed his eyes, studying a face more accustomed to reflecting grief than joy. "Call me after your appointment."

Hotch's brows drew down as he grasped his friend's words. "I'll just see you at work."

"Maybe…maybe not. You might want to take the rest of the day off, or maybe we could meet someplace and talk." Rossi's grin was lopsided. "We didn't say much to each other last night."

"Oh. Yeah." Aaron dropped his gaze, a little ashamed at having lapsed into morose silence for most of Dave's visit. "Sorry about that."

"No big deal." He gave Hotch a small, emphatic shake before releasing him. "Now, go make good use of this opportunity." He glanced toward Jack who had settled himself in Rossi's passenger seat, head turned away from the two men. "Don't worry about him, Aaron. You'll see him tonight. Go."

Rossi lingered until Hotch had backed out of the driveway and pulled into the morning traffic, lifting one hand in a half-hearted salute as he did so. Once the car was out of sight, Dave slid behind the wheel of his BMW, gave Jack a wide smile and tried to sound hearty when he spoke. "Ready, kid? Heeeere we go!"

XXXXXXXXX

There was no bus to Jack's school.

It was special. For special children who had earned the designation of 'gifted.'

Attendance meant parents had to make some sacrifices they wouldn't if they'd opted to send their offspring to a public school. One was the half-hour drive through Quantico's rush hour. Usually, this inconvenience was borne with steadfast patience, knowing the benefits the child would reap far outweighed the drive-time. On this morning, however, Rossi was glad of the commute; would even celebrate it and extend it. He drove slowly and let stoplights dictate his pace, rather than incite him to accelerate through the tag-end of the yellow ones.

He'd told Hotch to take advantage of the day's opportunities. He planned to do the same. Jack was a captive audience, and, hopefully, a captive conversationalist, too.

"So, kid. How's school for you these days?"

" 'S okay."

"Just okay?" Rossi spluttered a rude noise. "I thought you guys got to do all kinds of stuff the regular schools don't. I would've loved that at your age."

"Where's Daddy going?"

Dave covered his surprise, looking straight forward, keeping his eyes trained on traffic. He didn't know how much Hotch might have told his son about his mandatory psychiatric appointments. Since they didn't seem to be very communicative, he decided to make an executive decision. _Don't scare the boy, but if he's sharp enough to ask, then he's sharp enough to know if I lie to him. Distrust isn't what I want to sow here._ "Your dad has a doctor's appointment. The Bureau makes agents get medical help sometimes, even if they might not need it."

He risked a glance at his passenger; saw a fine mini-glare that told him Jack wouldn't be easily satisfied or deterred. "Does Daddy need it?"

 _Okay…forgive me, Aaron, if I make things worse, but someone's gotta bridge the gap until you guys are talking again._ "That's what the doctor will decide. That's why he wants to see your dad a few times…to be sure he's okay. And if he's not, then to make sure he gets what he needs to feel better."

A long, thoughtful silence lasted through two sluggish intersections. When Jack spoke, his voice sounded so small and alone it struck Rossi to the core. "Daddy's not okay."

This time Dave didn't try to cover his reaction. His glance and tone were concerned. "Why do you say that, Jack?" He brought his eyes back to the road, but his peripheral vision caught the boy shrugging.

"I dunno."

"Yes, you do. Or you wouldn't have said that. So I'm asking again: what makes you think there's something wrong with your dad?"

Rossi let the silence play itself out. He was not going to break it and let Jack think he was off the hook for an answer.

"Sometimes he cries."

Dave's heart and stomach plummeted. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but his voice remained calm and matter-of-fact. "Everyone cries sometimes. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I know."

This time the silence lasted long enough to tell Rossi that some encouragement was needed. "How are _you_ doing? Do you cry?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you tell your dad about it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Another peripheral shrug, then… "He doesn't tell me when _he_ does it. I just hear him. Mostly at night."

Dave's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. _Monkey see, monkey do…But what father wants his son to see him in tears? Aaron, I hope you get this talked out with your doctor._ "Why do you think he cries, Jack?"

"'Cause he's sad."

"Yeah, that makes sense, but why do you think that is?"

The littlest Hotchner expelled a small, exasperated sigh. "'Cause bad things happen and he can't stop them."

As much as he wanted to delve deeper into Jack's inner landscape, they were nearing the entrance to his school. In a moment he'd be gone. Rossi pulled to the curb and waited. The pause felt pregnant, as though the boy were giving careful, consideration to his next words. When they came, Dave heard a desolation far in excess of anything a boy of ten should know.

"Maybe Daddy shouldn't try anymore…Thanks for the ride."

Jack was out the door and swallowed up by the throng of other arriving students before Dave could respond, leaving his father's best friend with an indefinable sense of dread.


	18. Pride Goeth

"Morning, Aaron. Come on in."

Dr. Fletcher ushered his patient through the doorway to the inner office, medically assessing his every move. The man wasn't giving much away, though. Grim and sad and, even though he'd asked for this session, Hotch looked as though it were costing him; every step an admission of defeat.

The psychiatrist took special note of the fact that Aaron went to the couch. He didn't lie down, but even sitting on the edge there was an air of acceptance; much more so than on his first visit. Still, it was tinged with dejection.

"How are you feeling?" Fletcher took a position in his customary chair, crossing his legs and trying to look as nonjudgmental as possible.

"C'mon, Doc. We both know I wouldn't be here if I were fine."

"Fair enough. But I'd still like an answer." The doctor's voice grew gentle. "Last time we met you were in pain. I'm asking because I'd like to know if you feel worse…and if I did or said anything to make that happen."

Hotch gave a deep sigh, grimacing a mirthless smile. "Don't worry. There's nothing for you to feel guilty about."

"I don't feel guilty. I'm trying to help you. I was hoping, if you could pinpoint anything that might have touched on a sore spot last time, that we could explore it. Maybe defuse it. Or at least try. I need to be able to gage where you are, Aaron."

The Unit Chief ran his hands over his face, grinding the heels into his gritty, sleep-deprived eyes. "Okay, okay." He hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Closing his eyes, he made an honest effort to explore his inner state. A tiny, resentful voice whispered in his ear, _If you could figure out what was wrong and exactly why, you wouldn't be here! You'd…_ Hotch's lids flew up. It was so simple. Of course he knew. In low, halting words, he gave Fletcher what he wanted. "It's not _my_ sore spots that got to me, Doc. It's…it's my son's."

The psychiatrist nodded. _Of course. I knew you'd say that. Last time you growled it in an emotional upheaval. This time, you're talking, not spewing words to keep me at a distance. There's less anger. Thank you for that, Aaron, but I think you're deflecting your own pain; using your son's as a shield. Still, it's a step in the right direction._ "Something happened since we talked?"

"Yeah."

During the pause that followed, Fletcher remained silent. There was no need to push. Hotch knew he was expected to elaborate.

The Unit Chief took a deep breath and straightened, hands clasped loosely between his knees. "I tried to talk to Jack again. I…I asked him if I'd done anything wrong."

The doctor showed no expression; a perfect blank _And I wonder why you assumed_ _ **you**_ _were the problem? Can you see any patterns in your own life, Aaron?_

"He said I hadn't, but…" Hotch lifted pleading eyes to meet Fletcher's. "…but he _did_ acknowledge that _some_ thing was wrong."

The psychiatrist strove to keep eye contact casual. It wasn't easy. Seeing the raw need in Hotch's made him want to hand the man instant answers on a silver platter. That wasn't what these sessions were about, though. The patient had to do the work. "What do you think that might be, Aaron?"

"I don't know! That's the whole problem. I…don't…know." Hotch shifted his weight, biting at his lower lip and kneading his knuckles. "It's like when he was being bullied at school..."

Fletcher's brows twitched with interest. _I bet that goes straight to your heart. People who go into law enforcement generally want to right the wrongs of the world. Usually wrongs that they themselves suffered. You were bullied, too, weren't you, Aaron?_ "Tell me about that. How was it similar to what you're going through now?"

"He wouldn't talk to me! I knew something was wrong and I even knew who the other kid was. Every time I tried to get him to open up, he'd turn his back on me. Got irritated if I pushed it." Hotch's earnest eyes found the doctor's again. "Why? Why does a kid do that?"

Fletcher gave a one-shouldered shrug. "There's no one answer. Jack's the only one who can really tell you."

"But what do _you_ think? As a psychiatrist, what do you think?"

The doctor gazed out the window toward the sky beyond. "Let me ask you this: Are you proud of your son?"

Hotch blinked, recoiling a bit. "Of course I am. And I make sure he knows it. I tell him every day how proud I am of him. And I _am_. It's not just lip service."

Fletcher gave a slow nod, still contemplating the view. "Well, I'm not a parent, but I _do_ know something about being bullied." He looked back at his patient. "A child wants his parents to be proud of him. Almost more than anything, even if he's too young to realize it or to verbalize it…to define the need."

"That's why I tell Jack every single day."

"Good. That's good, but can you see how discussing what your son might consider his shortcomings could, in his mind, endanger that?" Hotch stared. It wasn't a glare, but an equally intense expression of his desire to understand. "Aaron, children judge themselves by how they fit into their peer group. It's one of the first stages in the development of an identity apart from the family they've grown up in. When a child is bullied or otherwise made to feel he doesn't belong, he takes it personally. It's not the bully's fault…it's a lack within himself."

Hotch's upper lip began to sweat.

"So, rather than disappoint you by dragging out and displaying before you his sub-standard ranking in his peer group, maybe Jack would do whatever he could to keep you away from such a painful judgment."

"But I love him! Nothing would ever change that. He has to know!" Hotch's agitation was apparent.

Fletcher nodded again. "I'm sure he does. How did it resolve…the bullying? Or is it still going on?"

"No. I guess the kids outgrew it. The issue just seemed to fade away. The school didn't see any more incidents that warranted concern. Maybe the boys worked it out between themselves without adult intervention."

"That's quite likely. But…" _Okay, Aaron…here we go…_ "…did you ever consider that the entire episode was more hurtful for you than for your son?"

Hotch's respiration was increasing. "What do you mean? How could it be? I'm not the one being bullied." His voice sounded tight, surprising him.

"Not now. But _if_ you've experienced that kind of abuse yourself, and _if_ you've also had issues with your own parents being proud of you…"

Dr. Fletcher didn't need to continue. Aaron's complexion had drained to a sickly-pale gray-green.

The doctor was pretty sure he'd grasped the connection.


	19. Into the Minefield

Hotch's throat worked, tendons and muscles straining to produce a few convulsive swallows.

His eyes darted, unable to fix on any one point; inner turmoil disrupting his focus.

Fletcher watched. His posture seemingly relaxed, yet every muscle and fiber tensed in case he needed to intervene. He remained silent until Hotch made an abortive attempt to stand, falling back, but attaining his feet on the second try.

"Sit down, Aaron."

The agent's response was wordless. Shaking his head in constant negation, he backed away from the entire situation. Fletcher stood, arms spread in a way that, if he'd been Rossi, would have been interpreted as an invitation to a hug…if he'd been Morgan… a way of corralling and controlling an overwrought Unit Chief.

"Aaron, sit down. I can't let you leave like this." It was true. The psychiatrist would cancel all other appointments and wrench his entire schedule around, rather than let a distraught patient run off to lick his wounds. Especially if those wounds ran as deep and raw as this FBI agent's seemed.

A few more swallows presaged Hotch finding his voice. Still, it cracked. "No…I…I…I need to…"

"You need to sit down." Fletcher marveled how eyes that could convey an amazing degree of alpha male power could also look like nothing so much as a frightened puppy. He tamped down the natural instinct to scoop up the puppy and soothe it, telling it everything would be alright. Because that would...one: cross the boundaries of professional as well as personal space, and two: possibly be a lie. He had no idea if everything would be alright.

That depended almost entirely on the patient.

"Aaron, take a seat and breathe. Just breathe."

Hotch blinked. Somewhere deep beneath the hurt a survival instinct was trying to assert itself. Gasping, he nodded. The tiny, primal brain that lived at the base of his reactions knew he needed help, knew he needed to listen to the non-threatening presence before him, knew this man's intent was to help, not harm. At last, the doctor's calm tone and slow, nonaggressive gestures penetrated Hotch's panic.

"Sit down, Aaron. Sit down and let me help you."

It was an uncontrolled drop, but Hotch resumed his position on the couch. His hands gripped the cushions to either side. His arms were braced, tensed, keeping his spine stiff, although he bent forward from the hips. His chest heaved.

Fletcher moved to the bar that had previously provided Rossi with fine liquor. This time he extracted a bottle of water, uncapped it and went to his patient. Kneeling before him, the doctor brought the rim to Hotch's lips. "It's alright, Aaron. Take a drink. It'll help settle you… Atta boy…"

The action of drinking calmed the anxiety-induced, convulsive swallowing and gasping. After a few minutes, the Unit Chief managed a deep, shuddering breath. Fletcher stood, reaching around to place a consoling hand on the man's back. A few more breaths and the doctor felt he could move away and allow Hotch some space. He brought his chair a few inches closer and sat down, committed to waiting as long as it took.

The agent hung his head, eyes closed. "I'm sorry." It was a whisper, but Fletcher was willing to bet it referred to a lifetime of imagined shortcomings rather than this one loss of control, and carried the import of a resounding, echoing explosion in Aaron's psyche.

"No need to apologize." The psychiatrist waited until Hotch sat straighter, able to breathe through his nose once more, rather than via the choking gasps of near hyperventilation. "I think you learned something. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

"It's a painful process, Aaron. If it's any comfort, when it hurts it means you're doing it right. You're making progress."

Hotch emitted a creaky, wry chuckle. "No pain, no gain?"

"Something like that." Fletcher watched his patient recover. "How are you doing?"

"How d'you think?" The agent's eyes held less panic, but the bruised shadows in their depths hadn't abated.

Hotch chewed on his lip until the doctor thought it might bleed from the punishment. To save it, he nudged the conversation along. "I need you to tell me what you feel, what you think, remember? That's part of the itinerary."

"Okay. I…I just found out that as careful as I've been, as hard as I've tried to be the best father I could…it doesn't matter. My father was never proud of me. And…and by trying to make sure Jack knows I _am_ proud of _him_ , all I've done is create distance between us. I've made him think he can't be himself, flaws and all, and still be all I want and all I love…the best son ever." Hotch's head bowed under the weight of realization. "He can't talk to me. He avoids me. I'm not the best father in the world, but I didn't think I was…was…I didn't know…" His voice faded. "…I didn't know…"

The words didn't disturb Fletcher as much as the flat, defeated tone in which they were uttered. He decided it was time to lend some perspective.

"Okay, it's my turn to talk. You have not created distance, Aaron. You'd be right about that except for one thing; one saving grace." Hotch went very still, listening for anything that might rescue him, rescue Jack, rescue their little family that was the center of his heart, the anchor of his soul. "Think back…. Did your father talk to you? Did he even try? Did your father ever ask you if _he'd_ done something wrong? Did he ever give you the chance to tell him?"

Fletcher leaned forward, aiming his questions at his target. "Did he care about your feelings enough to ask?"

Hotch's eyes were filling. Otherwise, he hadn't moved; hadn't twitched a muscle. "No." Softly spoken, as though from someplace decades distant.

"Well, then. There's the difference." The doctor leaned back, satisfied he was being heard. "You're right about one thing. You're _not_ the best father in the world. No one is. That animal doesn't exist, because there's no guide book, no recipe, no instructions. The only way to measure 'best-ness' is in a man's effort and concern and love." The authoritative tone of Fletcher's voice eased. It even conveyed the small shimmer of a smile.

"You're not the best, but, in my professional assessment, I'd say you're in the top 98 percentile. And even if it doesn't seem like it at the moment, I'd be willing to bet that your son thinks so, too."

Hotch hung onto the words like a drowning man. He wanted to believe in them. If true, they were the stuff of which hope was made.

 _If…_

He leaned his face into the palms of his hands. He needed time to think.

Watching his patient, Dr. Fletcher thought this might be a good place to stop.

But he wondered how many more mines lurked in Aaron's psyche, waiting to detonate.


	20. Mirror Image

History class.

The film dealt with the Civil War. Fictionalized. Hollywood-ized. But still…

Jack remained in his seat as long as he could. When the sound of weapons firing and bodies slamming to the ground touched an inner echo that had the power to paralyze him, he knew it was time to leave. Raising his hand, he caught Mr. Bertoff's eye and quirked one brow, almost as expressive as his father's. The teacher nodded, assuming it was a request to visit the boy's room, and Jack was off and running.

The Kellerman Academy for Gifted Students didn't enact the disciplinary measures other institutions of learning found necessary. Hall passes weren't required. If Jack didn't reappear after what was deemed an appropriate interval, another student would be sent to find him. The Kellerman administrators found that the children rarely abused the privilege of trust; at least, not after the first few heady times while they reveled in the unaccustomed freedom. The novelty wore off when they weren't congratulated by their peers for being rebels, and when they realized that the subject matter being taught was actually interesting; much more so than furtive loitering in some dreary, abandoned corner.

So, Jack had the dignity of tending to his own undefined needs.

He did wind up in the lavatory after all. Closing the door and being alone in the quiet, deserted space was comforting. The only sounds were the gentle susurration of air passing through vents and the almost subliminal drone of distant machinery drifting through the plumbing. Jack leaned his forehead against the cool, tile wall, closed his eyes, and breathed. He drew on a technique Coach had taught them. Long, slow, controlled breaths through the nose. The intent had been to prolong endurance, but Jack found it also calmed his thoughts and clarified the reality of his situation.

 _There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing bad is going to happen. I'm at school. It's safe. Nothing's changed since last period. It's just…it's just…_ And there he lost the power of logic.

Because Jack really didn't know _what_ 'it' was.

He just knew 'it' _was_.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch took his time.

Fletcher let him.

After a long, quiet interval during which the FBI agent sipped at his water and still looked vacant, although less panicked, about the eyes, the doctor decided the crisis had passed. Now, it was a matter of letting his patient sort out new self-knowledge and making sure he didn't stray off onto some dismal, destructive tangent.

"Aaron? What are you feeling?"

"Huh?...Oh, uh…okay, I guess. I…" Hotch's lean features grimaced in a way that made Fletcher think tears wouldn't be immediate, but would likely make an appearance once the man had found someplace private where no one could witness him mourn losing a set of closely-held beliefs about his performance as a father, and his identity as a son.

The psychiatrist's question was gentle, un-intrusive. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

When Aaron looked up, his glance was devoid of artifice. His defenses were down to a degree seldom seen. "I don't know. I feel…I feel…" He gave his head a small shake of frustration.

"Confused?"

"No…no…I feel…it's…I'm…I'm just…blank."

Despite refuting the term 'confused', Fletcher still thought 'puzzled,' 'bemused,' or 'baffled' might apply. "It's a lot to take in when the walls you've built around your beliefs are breached. If you're not feeling anything now, it's because your mind needs a break. Emotional and intellectual reactions will begin to surface as your subconscious sorts things out."

"Like shooting your first unsub…" Hotch's words were softly said, as though meant for his ears alone. Yet they made the psychiatrist's eyes narrow. He'd treated his share of agents who'd had a rough time coming to terms with taking a human life.

"Do you want to talk about that, Aaron?"

The Unit Chief blinked, pulled himself up and gave Fletcher an uncertain look. "Talk about what?"

"About the first time you killed someone." Hotch's brows twitched upward in consternation, causing the doctor to go into full-on assessment mode. "You just likened what you're feeling now to the aftermath of shooting your first unsub."

The agent sucked in a sharp breath. "I didn't realize I said that out loud." His voice was gaining strength, which the doctor took as a good sign. "But, no. I just meant that afterwards, after pulling the trigger and realizing the effect of doing so…I didn't feel anything. I know it was shock. And I had to go through the mandatory psych eval then, too. So, no…I don't want to talk about it, Doc. Besides…" Hotch shrugged, looking down at his hands. "…it was a long time ago."

"Time doesn't matter, Aaron. You began to form your idea of what a good father would be an even longer time ago. These aspects of yourself are permanent. Time doesn't 'heal' them, because they're not wounds. They're developments; growing things that are organically part of you. They don't heal, but you do incorporate them and adjust to them."

Hotch gave a small sigh. "You mean you learn to live with them. Are we talking about PTSD?"

"No, although I'm sure you're dealing with some of that." Fletcher leaned in. "I don't want to give you any more for now. I'd like you to take some time to recover and think over what happened here today. You did well. I hope you know that."

The patient shrugged. He was drained. He wanted to be alone. Any other time he would have pursued the diagnosis this doctor was holding onto until their next session; ferretted it out with persistence and diligence. All Hotch could do at the moment was seek the barest of assurances that some dreaded condition wasn't lurking in the wings. Reid's apprehensive years spent fretting over the possibility of schizophrenia ghosted across his mind. _I don't want to live like that…don't know how._

With a weary sigh, Aaron broached the subject. "Just tell me I'm not a walking time bomb, okay? Tell me I won't go ballistic if someone pulls a trigger I don't even know about."

Fletcher gave the agent a long, considering look. "Next time, I'll tell you more. Don't worry. What I'm thinking of is something that's not officially designated as a psychiatric disorder…it's that new to us…but, like everything we treat, it's been around for a long time.

"For as long as mankind has had a conscience. And you have a very strong, very well-developed conscience, Aaron."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Jack didn't know how much time had passed, but he assumed it couldn't have been too much, since no one had come to get him.

He splashed some cold water on his face and glanced at his own reflection in the wall-length mirror mounted over the row of sinks. He looked the same as always, which was comforting in its own way. It meant no one could tell just by appearances that the Hotchner kid was messed up. Which meant he could keep it secret. Maybe never have to tell anyone.

He looked just fine. He had his father's eyes…

A vision of Daddy's face swam before him… _more_ than one vision…

…but the images were related. Of that, he was sure.

Because all of them had blood and bruises…cuts and scrapes…

…and in all of them Daddy was trembling with emotion held in tight control. But he couldn't keep it out of his voice. Seemed kinda dumb to try so hard when as soon as he said the words 'I'm okay,' with a sound like a sob, it was a dead giveaway that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the images of Daddy had dissipated.

And he looked fine.

Just fine.


	21. Doorways

Hotch sat in his car and let his mind drift.

He didn't like the blank feeling. Sure, it was peaceful and undemanding, but it was alien to the way his brain usually sped along, synapses clicking, multiple trains of thought flying along well-defined tracks that led to purposeful destinations.

Fletcher had asked him where he was going after their appointment; had even offered to 'call someone' if he felt like company of the non-psychiatric sort. Hotch had said he wanted to go for a walk, but now…now he didn't. It had sounded like a benign, therapeutic activity, putting one foot before the other with no particular destination. But almost as soon as he set shoe leather to pavement, the Unit Chief felt someplace was drawing him, reeling him in like the catch-of-the-day.

Work.

The familiar confines and demands of the BAU.

The faces of people he could trust with his life.

People who were _not_ part of his domestic situation. At least, not on a daily basis.

But now, as he let the mental process float along at its own pace, a disturbing, little voice whispered at him… _You want to go there, because your role there is defined…because you know what's expected…because you don't have to think about who you are…your identity is written in your job description…but…_ the feeling of being forced to his knees intruded, of cuffs snicking hard around his wrists, of Jack's screams… _but that's where the label 'conspirator' was slapped on you…that's where the orders to invade your home were issued…that's where your service record was abandoned in the wink of an eye…in the snick of a cuff_

 _There are no safe places. Not really._

In the end, after twenty minutes of perspiring behind the wheel in the day's growing heat, Hotch knew the reason why he wanted to go to the place that had engineered his betrayal and still left a bad taste in his mouth.

Rossi.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dave had fielded questions when he arrived at the Bureau after dropping Jack at school.

In the kitchen as coffee swirled into his cup…"Where's Bossman?"

"He had some things to take care of this morning."

As he traversed the catwalk, headed toward his office…"Hey, where's Hotch?"

"Handling some personal business."

Spoken in hushed tones as J.J. hovered in his doorway…"Is Hotch coming in today?"

In the bullpen beyond her Rossi could see anxious eyes tracking the conversation. Brows were raised. Spines were stiffly straight, straining toward the liaison and Hotch's best friend, hoping to discern some clue. Because no matter what Dave said, they could tell something was wrong; could sniff it in the scent of their leader's absence. Rossi sighed.

"J.J., get everyone into the conference room. It won't take long."

XXXXXXXXXX

Jack ambled back toward his classroom on auto-pilot, barely aware of the familiar route he was taking.

It wasn't until he heard his name that he pulled free of the thoughts swirling around his mind in untidy, chaotic choreography. He halted; head jerking up. It took a minute to realize he wasn't being hailed by anyone.

He was being discussed…

"…Jack Hotchner."

"I know, but divorce isn't the stigma it used to be."

"You're kidding, right?" A pause during which Jack took a step closer to the door standing ajar. The door with the words 'Teacher's Lounge' printed on it in neat, block letters. "Ohhhh…you really don't know?"

"What?"

"His parents divorced, but that's not what took her away from him. His mother was murdered. Right in their own home."

"Noooo…"

"It was all over the newspapers. Front page with follow up side stories for days."

"My God! What happened?"

The voice oozed authoritative knowledge…and a predilection for delectable gossip. "A serial killer! You know the boy's father's an FBI agent, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, I'd heard, but that doesn't mean anything. Guy could be on cyber-crime, or a statistician, or a lot of things, but…he had something to do with a serial killer?"

"You had to read between the lines, but it sounded as though he killed the mother as revenge against the father. I mean, he'd attacked the father once and _didn't_ kill him, so…" A shuddering exhalation conveyed horror to the little boy in the corridor. "…so it was theorized that the whole mess was part of a scheme against Mr. Hotchner."

"How long ago was this?"

"I dunno. Maybe five years? Six?"

"Where was Jack when all this was happening?"

"In the house…"

"While his mother was being killed?"

"Yeah…Can you imagine?"

Out in the hallway, a motherless boy could imagine very well.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So what's the deal with Bossman?"

Morgan's question embodied the combined concerns of Hotch's entire team. Rossi looked from face to face, eye to eye, before responding.

"He needs some space. He's taking a few hours here…a few hours there… to deal with…"

"Not by choice." Reid blanched, startled that he'd spoken aloud. Sometimes his thoughts moved so quickly they turned into speech before he'd had time to judge if they were appropriate. The dead quiet under Rossi's stare made him hurry to justify his blurt. "I just mean, you know, Hotch never even takes _lunch_ breaks."

"Yeah." Morgan picked up the thread. "He wouldn't suddenly start playing hooky unless someone was making him do it. So, what's the story, Rossi?"

"OH!" Garcia's large eyes, made liquid and limpid behind thick, turquoise glitter-frames, filled with worry. "He's not sick is he? Mon Capitan isn't, you know… _ill…_ with…with something awful, is he? And…and having to get _treatments_ , is he?"

Rossi rubbed a hand down his face, lingering over his beard. "All right. Everyone calm down and let me get a word in edgewise." He paused, exerting his authority to put an end to useless speculation. "Hotch is fine. And no, he isn't absent by choice…"

"What are they doing to him now?" The angry contempt rippling through J.J.'s voice cut Dave off and sent his brows skyward. The liaison was more apt to be the voice of reason than of wrath. "Come on, Rossi. I was there, remember? I don't care how much evidence they thought they had; there was no reason to call in SWAT to take Hotch in his own home. Are they still after him?"

The senior agent took a deep breath. "They are not 'still after him.' But, yes, they do still have their hooks into him." Dave didn't want to encourage the workplace climate that liked to denigrate the upper echelons, but he couldn't lie. Not to these people. Not about Hotch.

"Psych eval." The words said in a dead tone dropped like lead among them. Tara's steady gaze challenged Rossi to deny them.

"A little more in-depth than standard, but…yes. Psych eval."

"Wha'd'you mean? What are they doing to him?"

XXXXXXXXX

Hotch made a beeline from the parking garage to the bullpen.

He'd intended to go straight to Rossi's office, but the sound of conversation coming from the conference room and the visible absence of his team from their desks sent him on a detour.

 _Must be a case came in. Wonder why I didn't get the notification?_

He decided to make as unobtrusive an entrance as possible.

The presentation of facts and photos was the first step in pulling together the disparate elements of his team. Minds would begin to meld. Talents would begin to mesh. Hotch had never told anyone, but it was an invigorating, exciting process that stirred his blood and sharpened his senses. He was like a hound being given the scent that would become the focus of his world until his quarry was found, until the hunt was over.

It was just what he needed to feel normal again after the psychiatric session.

Two feet away from the doorway, he realized his error.


	22. Leading the Leader

Hotch's stomach dropped.

Simultaneously, his hackles rose.

He was at heart a creature of alpha proportions. And the BAU had been his home turf more consistently and thoroughly than any other locale. It had been more than his home away from home during divorce proceedings and for the long, arduous separation from Jack when Witness Protection had ensured a U.S. Marshall had more contact with Hotch's family than Hotch himself. It had been the saving grace of his life when cruel circumstances had stripped him of so much. Even with political strife leaking its venom around every corner, it had been the beacon that called him home.

He was heartily sick and tired of letting others make him doubt himself and the one place where, even if it was a delusion, he'd felt accepted and even valued for a time.

 _No more. They're_ _ **not**_ _taking this away from me…_

Emotions raw, he covered the final distance and strode into the conference room.

Words weren't necessary. They might even have diminished the moment when, eyes blazing, the Unit Chief loomed over the people gathered around a table that he'd occupied the head of for so long.

"Is there a case I don't know about?" The strained, threatening quality of his voice reminded more than one agent of dark places in the human spirit; places where anger and illogic lived and fed on each other.

Like herd instinct, everyone present knew caution was required.

A few heads shook. There were a few murmured 'no's.

"Then it's time to get back to work."

Garcia shot for the door first, scuttling back to her lair, fuchsia-faced. The others filed out with more decorum, but equal amounts of chagrin. Except Rossi.

He brought up the rear of the line, but when he drew abreast of Hotch, he reached out and strong-armed the door. It clicked shut, making them the only two occupants of the room.

"I didn't expect you back. At least, not this soon."

"Obviously."

Rossi's jaw muscles hardened. "Sit down, Aaron." The leader of the BAU glared, but the force behind his expression was wavering. He'd been drawn here in the first place because he needed his friend. He needed someone who knew him well enough to cut through the posture and the position and see the wounds beneath the armor; see them in a nonprofessional, non-psychiatric light. He wanted someone to make comforting noises and take away the chill in his soul.

Dave studied his one-time protégé and felt a barrage of conflicting impressions pouring off the man. There was too much to sort out by visual cues alone. "Sit, Aaron."

Rossi decided to lend a little added force to his words, slipping an arm behind Hotch and giving him a firm prod toward one of the recently vacated chairs. He felt a tremor beneath his palm and pressed harder. "Take. A. Seat."

When Hotch complied it was like a bundle of twigs suddenly loosed from the twine that bound it. He dropped into place in a defeated, disjointed way still shooting resentful, sidelong glances at Dave.

"How did your appointment with Fletcher go?"

Hotch's lips pressed into a thin line. "Do you guys talk about me every time I'm gone?" He knew it was an unfair question laced with adolescent anger, but lately he didn't seem to have his usual control over his words and actions.

Rossi sighed, crossed his arms, and went to stand in front of his boss, looking down at him like a professor whose patience was wearing thin. "Yes, we talk about you. Not every time you're gone, but every time we're worried about you."

"If my team's worried about me, I'm not doing my job very well."

Dave's eyes narrowed. "Stop it. Don't do this with _me_. You can get away with it with almost everyone else, but not me."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are. You're playing games and you're being unfair. That's not like you, Aaron. You'd only do that if you were upset and you were trying to avoid discussing the real issues that are eating away at you."

"Unfair? I walk in on you guys gossiping about me; then I learn that it's standard procedure, because I worry everyone…"

"Shut up!" The words weren't normally part of Rossi's vocabulary with Hotch. That, plus the force like a whip-crack behind them made the younger man obey just long enough for Dave to forge ahead. "You think you're the only one who has the franchise on caring about his teammates? You think all the little battles you fight on everyone else's behalf, all the tiny favors and kindnesses that appear when they're needed most…you think these guys don't know who's behind it all?"

Hotch shifted in his seat, uneasy with the direction this conversation was taking. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well then let me explain." Rossi's voice and demeanor softened. "There's another kind of gossip about you, Aaron. The kind that exposes the man beneath the suit and the scowl. Let's see if I can recall it all…Who sent Garcia flowers because he thought she needed to know how much she's appreciated? Who dropped everything and drove J.J. to the maternity ward when he could have delegated that duty? For God's sake, who washed the blood from the walls of Elle's apartment so she wouldn't see it when she got home? Who covered for Reid's drug abuse because he understood the kind of support that remarkable mind needed at the time?" Hotch's bottom lip trembled. "Shall I go on?"

But the sight of a crack in the man's defenses made Rossi relent. His point had been made. With a deep sigh, he ran a forgiving hand down the Unit Chief's arm from shoulder to elbow. "You seem to be impaired when it comes to recognizing your own motives, my friend."

A much chastened Aaron nodded, eyes averted. "That's what Dr. Fletcher told me, too." Almost a whisper.

Dave's fond smile was a little sad around the edges. "Well, then I guess you need to realize you're a better man than you think you are."

"No. Not like that."

The smile faded. "Wha'd'you mean?"

Hotch kneaded his knuckles, keeping his eyes fixed on them as he studiously avoided looking at Rossi. "I…" He gulped a deep breath. "I, uh…Dave, he…he thinks my reactions to things that happen to Jack have more to do with me than with my son's welfare." At last Aaron looked up, turning a mournful gaze on his best friend. "What kind of father does that make me? How can I know what's best for Jack, if I can't even see him or what he's going through without some kind of filter from my past getting in the way?" His eyes dropped again, voice going low with shame. "What do I do now?"

Rossi scrubbed at his beard, observing Hotch through his own kind of filter; one that dipped beneath the surface, capturing sweetness and gentility and an unforgiving self-judgment. He held an internal debate, asking the same question of himself… 'What do I do now?' He was in a tricky position. It was tempting to meddle between father and son, but he had a feeling this was one of those journeys that would be diminished if too many people shared it.

And Dr. Fletcher was already in the mix.

"What you do now is take a deep breath, go out there and apologize for ever doubting the best team the Bureau's ever had; a team that's the best _because_ of the man who forged it and who maintains it above and beyond anyone's expectations."

Hotch shook his head, eyes on the ground. "I'm not…"

"Shush. Then, after you've apologized, you go to your office or you go home and give yourself some time to separate emotion from logic. You think over what you learned today and…"

"But what do I do about Jack?" Aaron's glance upward was quick, but Rossi could still see the depth of anguish lurking just below the surface.

"You don't do anything yet. Unless Jack lets you know otherwise." Dave dropped to a crouch, giving him a better view, and letting him gage Hotch's expression. "This process isn't over, Aaron. It's only getting started. I think you should consider whatever that psychiatrist tells you, but realize it's not the last word. These appointments aren't separate, finite lessons. They're stepping stones. My personal advice is that you should let yourself be led along the path. Give up some of that control you hold so dear. Give yourself a break and don't make any final judgments of yourself or anyone else just yet. Think you can do that?"

Hotch nodded, aware that Rossi was nearly nose to nose with him, watching for signs of disagreement or downright rebellion. A tiny spark deep inside _did_ want to revolt.

But this was why Aaron had come, looking for honesty coupled with kindness from someone who knew him well. As Fletcher had said, sometimes your friends had the clearest view of who you were.

Dave stood up, heaving a relieved sigh. "Okay. Get going. And I'm picking Jack up from school today." _That_ made Hotch meet the older man's eyes.

"No, I can go get him. I…"

"No. You're going to sort yourself and your team out. I'm going to get your son and bring him home. End of discussion."

Aaron was on the cusp of saying more, but caught himself. Rossi had said to withhold judgment; to relinquish control and follow the steps laid out by others.

That would be hard for a man like Hotch. But he'd come here for some words from Dave, and now he had them.

It would be poor thanks if he ignored them.


	23. Imperiled Hotchner, Times Two

Hotch didn't realize it, but on the rare occasions when he deemed an apology necessary and merited, whoever was on the receiving end felt as though they were looking through an un-curtained window.

So it was with his teammates.

Any role he played as leader dropped away. The man before them was as purely genuine, as clearly visible as a drop of sunlight. A Hotch Apology was impossible to refuse. It made some of the agents uncomfortable to catch a glimpse of such unadulterated honesty.

J.J. and Garcia were the exceptions.

Aaron was glad he delivered his regrets to Penelope in the privacy of her lair. The avalanche of unfettered affection it released would have been at odds with the façade of fierce command he strove to maintain.

"Ohhhh, My Beautiful White Knight! Ohhhh, you're just…you're just…OH!...Of _course_ I forgive you!...and…and…and I'll _destroy_ anyone who doesn't!...I have the viruses and I know how to use them…OH!…" The tech analyst launched herself at Hotch, engulfing him in a hug that would leave her orchid-spice perfume lingering on his suit until its next dry-cleaning. By the time he extracted himself, she'd also branded him with a ruby-hued lip print.

Aaron beat a hasty retreat, trying to recover by focusing on the last person he needed to speak to: the once-and-sometimes-still liaison, J.J.. Again, he was glad she had her own office, even if it did provide the bullpen with a prime view. Only this time, it wasn't his subordinate's reaction, but his own that was the issue.

"You don't have to explain anything, Hotch." J.J.'s voice was as low and fiercely protective as he'd ever heard; a jarring tone coming from such a seemingly gentle, deceptively angelic creature. "I was there. I know what happened and what it cost you."

She stepped closer. "If it had been me…if I'd heard Henry scream for Mommy…I…I…" The words trembled with repressed fury. "…Well, I don't think I'd have handled it half as well as you did. And I sure as hell wouldn't be okay afterwards…not still coming in here every day. Not after that."

Hotch stared at his teammate. He'd apologized, but he hadn't mentioned the morning SWAT had come to call. _If she can see that in me, then she's wrong; I'm not handling it well at all._ Before he could retreat, J.J. moved forward, taking his wrists, wrapping soft fingers around them as though trying to supplant the sensation of handcuffs chafing his flesh.

"Hotch, if there's anything I can do, if you need to talk…I know you've got Rossi and Jessica, but if you want some time alone, I can look after Jack…" Her voice faded. Words were inadequate. She'd rely on her boss's profiling skills to know that she was trying to convey her unique brand of sympathy as an agent, and a parent, and the only adult witness capable of grasping the magnitude of the betrayal enacted in his own home…his and his son's 'safe place.'

"J.J…I…" Aaron shook his head. "…I…"

"I know, Hotch. You're sorry. You don't have to be. But if you want to be sorry, there _is_ something that we _all_ expect of you that you can't seem to do." The Unit Chief's eyes reminded her of a puppy who was trying his best to understand what was required of him, but hadn't quite figured out the complexities of being housebroken or keeping off the furniture, and bitterly regretted making a mess of things.

"You're so good at using us in the field. You know each of our strengths, each of our weaknesses…You need to remember that we're on your side all the time. Not just when there's an unsub in the picture. You can trust us. You usually do. But you don't seem to understand that you can use us, too. Any time. Not just on the clock."

Hotch couldn't help what happened next. He'd been on the emotional edge since the previous day when he'd made the emergency appointment with Dr. Fletcher. He'd been feeling as though the whole world was against him, or at best it was indifferent to his suffering. He would have been able to soldier on if Garcia and J.J. had simply accepted his apologies and let him go. This much kindness was painful.

His eyes filled.

The liaison released his wrists and stood on tiptoe to reach her arms around him. She felt his momentary resistance and smiled, correctly guessing it was due to the blinds on her office windows being open, and the residents of the bullpen being so close and so very, very interested.

"Don't worry, Hotch," she whispered. "Everything'll work out. And don't worry about _them_." She tilted her chin in the direction of their audience. "They already know Garcia kissed you. A hug is nothing after that."

"Huh?"

"Lipstick. Red. On your cheek when you walked past everyone coming up here." J.J. sighed. "If it's any consolation, at least it matches your tie…"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi arrived at Jack's school early.

He wanted to be sure he'd be parked where the boy couldn't miss him: front and center at the curb right before the main doors. Sure enough, Hotch's son recognized the car and driver as soon as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He gave a few other boys glances and parting words, which made Dave feel better. Jack had friends, a peer group. That was essential for a healthy childhood and usually made any friction at home easier to bear.

"Hey." The littlest Hotchner slid into the passenger seat with a monosyllable and a chin-jut. Rossi bit his lip to keep from chuckling. It was an exact replica of how Aaron greeted him more often than not.

"Hey yourself, kiddo. How was your day?"

"Okay." The boy seemed preoccupied with manipulating his backpack off his shoulders and out of the way. To the profiler behind the wheel it looked like a diversionary tactic. Rossi decided the drive home would be very leisurely; all stoplights and stop signs fully honored. Snail's pace.

"Jack, this morning you said your dad shouldn't try so hard. What did you mean?"

An indifferent shrug. "I dunno."

"I think you do." Silence, but Rossi felt it was the thoughtful type so he let it drag on as he prolonged their travel time with an uncharacteristic adherence to traffic rules and courtesy that let anyone who wanted cut in front of him. After several minutes, it paid off.

"Dad doesn't think I know when he's sad." The small, sincere face looked up at Dave. "I do know, so why does he try so hard to make out like everything's okay?"

 _Oh, boy…_ "My guess is he doesn't wanna make you sad, too. But you'd have to ask him, if you want to be sure."

"I know."

Another protracted silence stretched between them. Rossi chewed on his lip and considered his options. He chose to meddle. "You said you cry sometimes, too, Jack. What makes _you_ sad?" He glanced at his passenger. "I promise I won't tell your dad if you don't want me to."

"I dunno." It seemed to be the boy's go-to response.

"You sure about that?"

Jack fidgeted with his backpack. Dave saw the nervous movements peripherally…and waited. There were a few false starts: indrawn breaths that presaged vocalization, but failed to actually achieve speech. Rossi let the child take his time. It wasn't easy forming words into concepts that were new, or habitually hidden. _Just like his dad._

At last, Jack half-turned in his seat, a worried frown engraved on his brow. "I heard stuff today in school. Stuff I can't talk to Dad about, 'cause it'll for sure make him sad."

 _At school? That's an unlikely place for anything to happen serious enough to throw Aaron off his game._ "Like what?"

Hotch's son braced himself with a deep breath and a firm grip on the strap of his backpack. "It was about Mom. I heard someone talking about how…about how…" The child's throat seemed to close of its own accord; a strangled sob surprising both of them.

Alarmed, Rossi took his eyes from the road, giving his small passenger a sharp glance. "Jack? You alright?"

An emphatic headshake.

"What's goin' on, kid?"

The dam had burst. All the boy could do was turn his back and burrow into the seat as though trying to deny this loss of control. Dave recognized the reflexive effort to hide. _Aaron…_

Suddenly, Rossi wasn't taking his time. He floored the pedal and raced to get Jack home.

He knew a Hotchner in trouble when he saw one.


	24. Home Again

Apologies accomplished, Hotch went to ground in his office.

He didn't mean to. It was just that he felt he'd given everyone enough of his emotional energy for a while. He huddled behind his desk, looking busy, but found the files before him incomprehensible. The words and photos morphed into nonsensical shades of ink on paper, patterns with no meaning attached.

Yet there was some benefit to remaining sequestered in his little corner of the BAU. He was in a place that felt familiar and, despite the Bureau-fueled SWAT episode, felt safe. The muffled, den-like atmosphere allowed him to abandon trying to decipher his paperwork in favor of deciphering himself.

Some of it wasn't pretty.

He could acknowledge that he was mentally unfocused, his cognitive processes diffuse rather than laser-keen. He could accept that this was a lingering effect of cumulative trauma. He could even believe that Dr. Fletcher would help him and, if he was lucky and could manage to suppress his natural tendency to rebel and lash out whenever he was frustrated, there might eventually be light at the end of his personal tunnel. Although significant, all that was only a part of the problem.

Jack.

 _If I'm too messed up to help my son, then it's not just my own failure at stake. Repercussions will echo through Jack's life, just the way my father's won't stop impacting mine._

Thinking of his son brought Rossi to mind. And there his thoughts forked. He wanted to have another go at making the older man see that picking Jack up from school was a father's job, especially when that father was often absent and forced to leave his boy's transportation in other's hands. Simultaneously, Aaron realized he'd apologized to everyone…except Dave.

Feeling a little better for having identified an action item, something he could do now rather than sitting about waiting for self-discovery to take effect the way Rossi believed it would, Hotch levered himself up from his desk and headed toward his senior teammate's office, gathering determination along the way. _Even if I'm a mess, I need to be near Jack. Even if he pushes me away, he'll know I'm there. Dave'll understand, especially if I attach it to an apology._

Chin high and resolve strengthened, Aaron gave a sharp rap to Rossi's door, entering without waiting for permission. "Dave, I…"

He was speaking to an empty space.

Hotch was too late. Rossi was gone; his absent briefcase and tidy desk indicating he'd left for the day.

Berating himself for not having foreseen the older man would predict a last-minute argument and had intentionally departed without alerting his boss, the Unit Chief returned to his office, gathered his belongings and made his desultory way out.

At least he'd be there to greet Jack when he came through their front door.

Even if the greeting wasn't returned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi drove with one hand on the wheel.

The other was patting the back of a small, sobbing Hotchner. The outpouring of grief fell just short of silent. _I bet he learned that from Aaron, too._ The disturbing image of father and son biting back the sounds of sorrow so each could protect the other played across Dave's inner eye. He murmured a continuous stream of comforting nonsense to fill the noiseless void.

"It's okay, Jack… Everything's gonna be fine… You'll see… It'll all work out… Everything's gonna be okay…"

Through it all, Rossi was heartily glad he hadn't let Hotch pick the child up. If this had to happen, he was grateful to be the first responder, the buffering zone between two fragile, damaged creatures. _I'll be the bulkhead against which this initial wave breaks. But Aaron will have to deal with the following one._

 _I just hope he's strong enough for this today._

XXXXXXXXXX

Rossi continued to drive with the efficiency of a seasoned member of law enforcement elite. Even speeding and cutting corners, it took a good twenty minutes for him to reach Hotch's home. In the end, he deemed that a good thing.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, Jack had quieted. He'd mastered himself with a series of gulping sounds that tore at Dave's heart. Afterwards, he pulled himself erect, sitting tall, but keeping his face averted as though something inordinately interesting were claiming his attention outside the window.

Rossi caught the child's pathetic attempts to dry his eyes and staunch a running nose with surreptitious swipes of his sleeve. He wasn't fooling anyone, though, and he knew it. So, when Jack remained in his seat after they'd parked, saying he wanted to wait a minute before going in, Dave nodded.

"Sure, sure…No rush…" _He doesn't want Aaron to see he's been crying._ But some things can't be removed with ease…DNA from a crime scene…indelible ink from white fabric…or a small boy's salt-reddened eyes and tear-stung cheeks…

A few minutes passed. With Hotchner fortitude, little Jack hitched his backpack on and opened the car door, signaling that this small grace period was at an end. Rossi made sure he was by the child's side when they reached the front door.

Dave knew Hotch was home. He'd parked right behind the man's car. He had no idea what shape Aaron would be in. The day had already proven rough. He opted to go with a neutral expression and a voice that was less boisterous and jovial than usual. "Hey! We're home."

Jack sprinted for his room; head down, shoulders hunched…

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch came home to an empty house.

For a brief moment he considered driving to Jack's school and derailing Rossi's plans. But having spent a good part of the day apologizing for leaping to conclusions and mistaking genuine concern for unsavory gossip, he thought better of the impulse. It all had to do with that 'letting go of control' thing that he'd been advised about more than once.

So Aaron locked away his gun, stashed his briefcase in his study, and changed out of his suit.

After that, he was at loose ends; a dangerous place for a man not quite in control of his emotions. As he drifted about the house, his thoughts wandered, too. He found himself in Jack's room.

Hotch sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at the posters, and keepsakes, and general boy-treasures with a new perspective. A gradual calm descended upon him.

His own room as a child had been austere. There were no mementoes of vacations, or friendships, or budding interests. It had been a cell. A place where a son's spirit had been imprisoned by fear and pain and an inability to please the most important man in his young life.

This room, Jack's room, was so different.

Aaron could remember each trifle and trinket; where they came from, why they merited being put on display. This was more than a place to sleep. This room held dreams and hopes for the future. It held a love of things past, too.

It couldn't have been more unlike the four walls that had circumscribed Hotch's childhood. This space was visible proof that Jack's daddy wasn't imposing his will. He was nurturing his son's spirit, letting it explore the world and find what attracted it. So different from his own upbringing.

And that gave a young father hope. _I might be doing things wrong, but I am_ _ **not**_ _recreating my father's world._

And that made Aaron smile.

It would have been a quiet, peaceful way to end a turbulent day, except…

XXXXXXXXXX

…Jack rocketed through the half-open door, head down, eyes trained on the floor, intent on gaining the privacy of his room before Daddy could catch sight of his face. He'd done his best, but he knew what it looked like when people cried, so he was pretty sure his father did, too.

In one, continuous motion, he shed his backpack and dove for the comfort of his bed…

…barreling straight into a distracted, contemplative Hotch.

Startled, Aaron closed his arms around the unexpected projectile consisting of one, distraught, rumpled boy. It was a reflexive action.

Equally surprised, Jack scrabbled to get away. But only for a moment. The strength of his father's protective hold…the familiar, warm scent…the memories it triggered…the boy's sheer need of something he'd been avoiding for too long…

Hotch's son heaved one more silent sob and then leaned into his father.

It was an instinctive action.

It melted through all the barriers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi heard the tumult and followed Jack.

He stood in the doorway of the boy's room just long enough to recognize reconciliation.

 _More dams bursting…more doors unlocking…I'm a third wheel here; they need to work through this on their own._ He turned and walked back to the front door, then back to his car.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to find out if Jack had broached the subject of his mother's murder.


	25. Paradigm Shift

It wasn't like the gulping, wracking sobs that had spurred Rossi to hurry home.

This time the tears were quieter, but no less a release of pent-up, stressful sorrow.

And this time, they were Hotch's.

Jack burrowed into his father, pressing his face against the lightly-muscled chest.

He could hear everything. Daddy's heart. Daddy's respiration. Daddy crying and not trying to camouflage it. No cover-up. No false assurances. When Rossi had been showering him with the standard 'everything will be okay's, Jack had wanted to turn on him and scream sudden hatred of the little, white lies that adults seemed to think were necessary. He'd been raised on them and he was beginning to resent them with every fiber of his being. Especially when he sensed everyone around him knew something about him that he didn't.

Like when Coach was lenient with him.

At first he'd thought it was because he didn't have a mother, but lots of other kids were in one-parent homes and no one tip-toed around _them_. Then he'd thought it might be due to the turbulence surrounding his father's work and the occasional publicity that went with being a high-profile FBI agent. Even if Hotch was exonerated after messy cases, there were still news stories that fanned flames of speculation. Jack didn't hear about most of them, but he knew they existed. He didn't understand the ugly business of the media with its lackeys who, with little thought for veracity or the consequences to families, leapt on any salacious tidbit that would attract an audience. He only knew that there were comparable situations among his peers that involved unwanted attention and, in the political environs of Quantico, sometimes scandal.

But _he_ was the one treated differently.

And the words he'd overheard drifting out of the teacher's lounge had held dread, and fear, and a loathsome fascination. Jack had a feeling he was about to discover something about himself, only it wouldn't be a wonderful thing, like when Harry Potter discovered he was a wizard.

This would be like the part where Harry found out he'd been lied to all along about his parents' deaths. When he thought about that, something inside of Jack began to close off again.

Even if he didn't understand exactly what they were, he didn't want the awful things to be true. He wanted to know what they were, but then again…he didn't. He wasn't equipped to handle such conflict.

So he hugged his daddy harder than ever.

XXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Fletcher's day had started with Aaron Hotchner, and it ended with the agent still on his mind.

Despite the patients he'd seen in the interim, the psychiatrist was eager to prepare for Hotch's next appointment. It wouldn't be for a few days, unless the agent contacted him on an emergency basis again.

Fletcher didn't think that would happen. He had the feeling that, as traumatic as Hotch's discoveries about himself were, he wasn't the type to cave under pressure. He'd hit a low point and then come raging back, fighting for his own survival. Throw in his _son's_ survival, and the man would be unstoppable.

He _would_ struggle his way out.

The doctor hadn't been so positive when he'd first met Aaron, but after only two sessions, he had an inexplicable, good feeling about the prognosis, primarily because he thought he had a clue to the biggest booby trap in the minefield that lived inside his patient's psyche. If he knew what was broken, then he could figure out how to help Aaron fix it.

Since the morning's appointment, the problem of Hotch had been running through what Fletcher considered his 'medical mind.' It was an accumulation of education and experience. He relied on it a great deal, because it often unraveled puzzles, presenting him with hopeful solutions when he backed off and let it run, undirected, on its own. His medical mind had been purring along all day.

He'd had a hunch that had made him mention Aaron's conscience, his sense of rightness in the world. Now, he was almost sure of it; anxious to take the next step and prove himself right.

 _His father might be a huge influence, but the damage that_ _ **really**_ _hurts is something he doesn't even suspect._

The doctor made himself comfortable, opened his laptop, and brought up the files he'd been compiling that contained burgeoning research on a relatively new area of psychiatric study.

 _Poor Aaron. If I'm right, good man that you are, you're the monster of your own life…_

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Buddy?...Buddy, are you okay?"

Hotch kept his eyes squeezed shut. His whole universe focused down onto the feeling of his son's arms around him as far as they'd go, as tight as they could hold on. His voice was deep with emotion. In the wake of feeling so much, he wasn't sure he'd shed tears until he bent his neck and nuzzled Jack, and felt the salty wetness he'd dropped on the boy's hair. He'd devoted so much energy to shielding his son from seeing his grief, and now he'd dampened the boy with his tears, baptizing Jack with the very thing he'd taken pains to conceal.

The momentary pang of guilt for making Jack witness the extent of such unharnessed emotion, faded when the child pushed to be even deeper in his father's embrace. Hotch curled and caved and hollowed, making himself a nest for his son.

"Jack? Buddy?"

"'M okay."

Aaron felt a trembling. He couldn't tell if it originated in him, or if he was resonating to tremors running through Jack's body pressed against him.

With a deep sigh, Hotch stopped trying to figure it out. Then he stopped thinking altogether, choosing to revel in the pure, animal comfort of closeness. His heart swelled with fierce, paternal love. It filled him, displacing all the other concerns and problems that played like a continuous soundtrack just beneath the surface of his life.

Clinging to each other, both Hotchners calmed; their breathing returned to normal, their trembles subsided. Aaron's muscles began to protest, but he wouldn't move until Jack did.

At last, pushing himself back, Hotch's son gazed at his father, reading the faint tracings of tears tracking their dried-salt way down gaunt cheeks. Reading, too, the worried lines etched across his features. Most of all, Jack stared at the glow deep in Daddy's eyes, like embers fanned to life. He might have wondered at the tears; might have puzzled over the signs of worry. The glow needed no explanation.

Reid would have expounded on the fact that the only change in eyes themselves was in pupil dilation; that anything else was accomplished by the fifty-some muscles controlling and adjacent to the occipital orb.

Jack didn't need that much information. He saw the glow and knew.

It was easy to interpret love.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Buddy, are _we_ okay?"

Hotch modified his original question. Jack nodded, but chewed on his lip, a small frown appearing. He might as well have said a resounding, conditional _'But…'_

Aaron felt a worry-scowl forming on his own brow and, cognizant of his son's scrutiny, erased it…which made Jack's frown deepen. "What?"

"Everyone's always hiding stuff."

Hotch blinked. "Wha'd'you mean?"

Deep breath. "People act different around me, Dad. And I heard stuff…about…about Mom." The young eyes staring into his own were demanding, and utterly honest. Hotch felt his world shift.

The cub still needed protection.

But now, he needed information, too.

And the cub's father was terrified.


	26. Past Imperfect

Hotch held very still, mind and heart racing, spinning in place with no hope of reaching a safe destination.

 _So much of fatherhood is fear._

He remembered his terror when Jack was born and placed in his arms for the first time. Hotch was helpless; carried along on tsunamis of emotion he'd never experienced, never imagined. He was being pulled by an irresistible tide farther and farther from the shores of the life he knew.

And he was happy to drown in the undertow.

The rules all changed. He was suddenly less important, yet endowed with overwhelming responsibility for the tiny creature that had displaced him: the most important thing in the world…a baby.

He watched Haley assume command and slip into the role of mother with an ease he envied. Hotch wondered if the knowledge was innate, if it was a natural result of a woman having been in intense communication on the cellular level with the child all during the months of gestation.

It was something he couldn't puzzle out.

It remained a mystery.

But things _had_ gotten better.

Hotch realized that babies don't judge; they just love. And need. And stare with large, unblinking eyes at the big, clumsy, deep-voiced thing that was trying to learn how to change a diaper under Haley's instruction.

Absent so often because of his job, Aaron was secretly relieved, even as his heart and soul were claimed forever by the pudgy, little being with the stentorian scream and the gurgling laugh. It was easy to let Haley take the reins. Hotch consoled himself for his imagined shortcomings by telling himself that his role was that of Protector. That would be his chief value in the equation; something he could do well, could do better than Haley.

That illusion was blown to hell when George Foyet took over the home he and his wife had shared.

Aaron had failed to protect his family. He'd felt it ever since, because he knew Jack, even if the boy didn't completely grasp the events, felt it, too. Always. A mother-shaped hole in his son's life.

And now he wanted to know why. How. Wanted Daddy to answer. Was waiting for Daddy to clear things up and was looking at Daddy with a calculating expression; sensors for the detection of falsehoods fully deployed.

Terrifying.

Deep breath. Meet the eyes filled with suspicion and questions and wariness. So like his own.

"What did you hear? About Mom…"

"She was…was murdered."

Hotch's throat went dry. So did his lips. He licked them, knowing it made him seem nervous. "You knew that, Buddy. We talked about it. Remember?"

Jack's eyes changed. If Aaron believed in such things, he would have said something ancient, an older soul was looking out at him. "I remember. Remember other stuff, too…maybe...kinda…"

"Who was talking about Mom? Who said that to you?"

The boy shrugged. "No one said it to me. I just heard. Teachers. Talking." His disconcerting gaze was fixed on his father. "Is that why people act weird around me, Dad? 'Cause of Mom?"

Hotch took a moment to breathe. His lungs felt as though they'd filled with iron. And rusted iron, at that. He sucked in enough air to break the sensation, but his heart was laboring with stress. This was not how he would have chosen to discuss things with his son. And certainly not _when_. He'd hoped Jack would be several years older before the questions surfaced. _Go carefully. This is where trust will either be made or destroyed…_

"I don't know what you mean by 'acting weird,' or who's behaving that way around you, but…it's possible it could have something to do with Mom." Another deep breath. "It's also possible it could have something to do with me."

Jack's grave regard wavered. He blinked. "You were there."

"Yes."

"You came and got me."

"Yes."

"Daddy." The littlest Hotchner's eyes shimmered and pooled. "I heard stuff."

"People shouldn't be talking about it where you can hear. Those teachers…"

"No. Not them. I heard stuff when Mom…when you…"

 _Oh, God…no…_ "What kind of stuff?"

"I dunno. Not sure. Kind of like…kind of like when those guys arrested you." Aaron noticed Jack was trembling. "What happened, Daddy?"

"You're shivering."

"So are you."

He was. Hotch was so focused on his son, he hadn't noticed. He reached out and pulled Jack to him, endlessly grateful that the boy didn't resist, but snuggled against his father once more. "I'm okay, Buddy, I…"

"NO! You're not!" The cry stopped Aaron mid-sentence. "You always say that! And you're not! Stop hiding stuff! Stop it!" It was almost a wail.

Hotch felt it like a wind through his soul. He stared over the top of his son's head. He had no words, so Jack continued…

"You're _not_ okay! And you're going to a doctor, which means you're not! And you always say you are, but I remember! I re…re...remember…" The child's voice trailed away, muffled against his father's chest, against a heart pounding with dread and guilt.

Aaron swallowed and took several shallow breaths before he could speak. "Jack…son…what did I…why do you…"

"I remember your face, Daddy." Still pressed into Hotch's chest, the words were warm puffs of air. They made Aaron cringe. "There was blood…There was…" Jack pulled away, meeting his father's eyes with an imploring look. "…There was, wasn't there…?"

With his entire being, Hotch wanted to deny it, say anything that would wipe the memory away; bury it under uncertainty until it faded into oblivion. "Yes. There was blood. I got hurt."

"And Mom got killed?...And I was there for all of it?...Was I?..."

"Yes, Jack." Pushed to the wall, at the moment of truth, Aaron's voice went low and calm. Nothing mattered when it pertained to him. If he was bathed in guilt and earned his son's blame or worse…it didn't matter. The only thing that _did_ was that he ease his child's distress and clear away anything that might turn putrid, festering its way into the future. "You were there. We lost Mom and I fought the bad guy. I got hurt and when I came for you, I didn't care what you saw. I only wanted to see _you_. And know you were safe. I'm sorry." He hugged Jack closer; a dim, frightened corner of his mind praying that he hadn't just severed the father-son bond because he'd been selfish years ago and hadn't considered the gory visage he presented, looming over a small, scared child. "I'm sorry…"

"He hurt you. He killed Mom and he hurt you…Daddy…"

Jack's arms tightened around Hotch again.

It was the most wonderful feeling in the world.


	27. No Place to Hide

Hotch held on to his son.

He fancied he could feel Jack's mind darting down paths behind doors that had been mercifully locked. Until now.

Everything was creeping into the light. Every bogey man was leering around every corner. The world was falling apart, shattering into too many pieces. Aaron knew that no matter how hard he tried, he'd never be able to gather them all up and fit them back together.

 _It all changes now._

Like a cruel prophesy he heard his own voice, spliced together and used to condemn him; played to him while he was cuffed and constrained: 'Today is when everything changes.' And maybe it wasn't just a ploy. Maybe it was true in a very personal way for him, and for his son.

"What happened to the bad guy, Daddy?" Jack snuffled the words against the warmth of his father's body.

"I…He's gone. He can't hurt anyone ever again."

The boy's head reared back, looking up with a fierce determination. "No. That's not what I asked. I know he's gone. What happened to him? Where is he now?"

Deep breath, feeling the horror he'd worked so hard to bury pushing its way upward. Another bogey man, custom made just for Aaron Hotchner. "He's dead, Jack. He can't hurt anyone. Ever."

Long pause. Only a young man and a younger, breathing, waiting. Then…

"Daddy…did you…did you _kill_ him?"

The oxygen wouldn't behave. It refused to enter Hotch's lungs voluntarily, forcing his chest to make rough, little, hitching movements. "Jack, do we have to talk about this? It's over. Done." _And I am such a liar. It'll never leave us. Never. Foyet's not gone..._

"I wanna know what everyone else knows."

"There are some things I can't tell you."

"Why not?" Such a querulous sound. It reminded Aaron of the phase where every other second his son was asking 'Whyyyy,' prolonging simple statements into interminable sagas of explanation. That was long ago. A younger, different child.

"Well, it's like the movies. You know how some things are rated R 'cause they have stuff in them that's not so great for kids to see?" Jack gave a slow, wary nod. "That's what this is like."

"This isn't the movies."

 _No. And I'm not really a hero…less and less as you get older…less and less with each day…_ "Maybe if you tell me what you remember, I can fill in some gaps." _Oh, God, I don't want to do a cognitive interview with my own son!_

" 'K…"

Jack fell silent. So did Hotch, giving the boy time to explore memories that his father had hoped would never come to light. At last Aaron's son took a deep breath, preparing for a very careful journey. Adults could be tricky. And Dad had already made it clear he wouldn't tell everything. If you didn't ask just the right questions, adults could slip between them and you'd have only yourself to blame for letting them hide things away.

"You were hurt, and you were crying, too, Daddy. And your voice was all shaky, right?"

"Yes." _I couldn't help it. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry…_

"And you told me you were okay, but you weren't."

"I didn't want to scare you."

"I was already scared, 'cause of the noises."

"Noises. What noises?"

"Dunno. They were loud and I remember they got closer. What were they, Daddy?"

"The bad guy. And me. Fighting." _Please don't make me say it was your mother getting shot and Foyet dragging her corpse up to our bedroom…Please…_

"George."

Hotch's heart froze. _How could he remember that?_

There were so many new faces drifting in and out of Jack's life at that time: Sam, the Federal Marshall who had overseen the Hotchner family's location and relocation, new contacts, new neighbors, new acquaintances. Even Haley had dyed her hair and taken on a new look.

But Jack could remember the name George. _Which means Foyet made a big impression, left an indelible mark on my son._ "Do you remember the bad guy, Buddy?"

"Just 'cause Mom was upset. Crying and stuff. That's all."

"I'm so sorry."

"So he killed Mom."

"Yes."

"H-how?"

"He shot her, Jack." _Please don't ask me how many times, or how quickly she died…please…_

Another long, thoughtful pause. "Was he gonna kill _me_?"

Hotch started to say that he didn't know; not for sure anyway, but he remembered with crystal clarity the moment, the turning point in the fight. Foyet had taunted him with the sadistic image of dragging Jack downstairs, showing him his dead parents, and then…and then… Even in retrospect, Aaron's eyes filled. It was that threat that had broken through the Unit Chief's last vestige of humanity. A surging, raging animal was born of the Reaper's words; a creature Hotch hadn't known lived within him. He bit down hard on his lip to keep the sense-memory of the most horrific day of his life at bay.

His son had asked him a question.

Aaron would have lied, except he knew Jack was putting together the sounds, the things he'd heard from the coffin-like enclosure of the window seat that hadn't been all that far away. He might have heard, might have retained Foyet's words. Hotch said the only thing he could that would still protect his son from too-early knowledge of his own mortality.

"I was _never_ going to let that happen."

"So you killed him."

"Yes." _Please don't ask me how…_

A long, long pause made Hotch think the session might be at an end, until Jack gave a sigh leaden with adult weariness. "Dad, other people aren't the only ones acting weird around me."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm acting weird, too. Sometimes."

"Like how?"

"I dunno. Just stuff. I dunno. But…more and more."

Aaron had been treading with extreme delicacy from the start. Even so, at this moment he felt he'd entered sacred ground. It harbored a young boy's soul. It was unexpected. It would require more than he felt he could offer. A misstep now could have dire consequences. _I can give you my blood and my life and my very soul, Jack…But I'm not sure I can give you help. Because…because…_ He realized he was holding his breath, his heart pounding so hard its pulsing could be felt through his fingertips. _…because I'm a mess. And Fletcher knew it…That's why he said he hoped he could meet my son someday…_

 _I can't do this alone. I need help…_

If it meant he'd have to spread himself open and let every psychiatric professional in existence dissect him like a science class frog, poring over his worst pain, and maybe unable to reassemble him…if it would help Jack, Aaron would do it.

He was ready.

He just hoped it wasn't too late.


	28. Fault Lines

While the Hotchners clung to each other, miles away Rossi was at home in his mansion, drinking scotch and holding a weighty conversation with Mudge.

"I dunno, boy. I think about it a lot, but…I dunno." One corner of Dave's mouth twitched upward in a wry half-smile. "One minute I'll think I'm the luckiest SOB in the world, and the next…well…" He sipped the amber liquor, feeling its pleasant burn all the way down.

"I wanted to be a dad so bad…" The alcohol was starting to take effect. "…a dad so bad…Hey, that rhymes, Mudgie. Not too shabby for a guy who writes prose, huh?…" The dog thumped his tail once. It was more of acknowledgement than approval; Mudge didn't do much reading, so didn't consider himself a critic. Rossi nodded, ruffled the ears that were so attentive whenever he needed to talk.

"When I didn't get to keep my own kid…my James…" His eyes grew damp. "…I was happy to find that green, wet-behind-the-ears, eager beaver named Aaron…And then…" His smile beamed through incipient tears, like sunshine through mist forming the emotional equivalent of a rainbow. "…then I got the biggest surprise gift God could've given an old war horse like me. A daughter. 'Magine that…" Dave tasted his drink, shaking his head in fond disbelief. "And Mudge, I thought how lucky I was to have all the fun of being a dad and a granddad without ever having to do the messy, scary stuff that goes with raising a kid." His smile made an abrupt exit.

"Now I'm not so sure."

The Labrador raised his head, noting the change in tone. Rossi stroked the top of it, easing canine concerns. "Now I kind of wish I'd had more hands-on experience, know what I mean? 'Cause those Hotchners…they're a handful." He relaxed more deeply into his favorite, overstuffed chair.

"Those two need time together more than anything, but…but I wish I could help more. Wish I knew better what to say or how to make the hurts go away."

His voice trailed off into an almost-whisper. "That's when I wish I'd been a dad for all the messy stuff right from the start, all the scary stuff…so I wouldn't feel so scared _for_ them right now…wish I'd had a little one to raise all the way through."

Sensing his best friend's sadness, Mudge blew out a whuffling sound, jowls rippling. It broke Rossi out of his reverie. Looking down at the inquisitive eyes filled with love, Dave's mood lifted. He chuckled, reaching once again to pat his dog.

"What am I sayin', Mudge-boy? I raised _you_ all the way through, didn't I?…And if I can handle peeing on the floor and being shaken awake like I'm a chew-toy…I guess I can figure out how to handle a couple Hotchners." He drained his glass and struggled out of his chair with a contented groan.

"C'mon, boy. Bedtime. Tomorrow is another day…"

Mudgie went into a full-wag agreement and followed his 'Dad' upstairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was late.

Across town, Rossi and his dog were snoring in comfortable slumber.

Hotch and Jack were still huddled together. Neither had any more to say, or didn't feel like trying at the moment. They were finding solace in mutual confusion and concern. At last, Aaron stirred, separating himself. He looked down into his son's watchful gaze. "Hey, Buddy…You wanna stay home from school tomorrow? And I'll stay home from work?"

Jack blinked twice. "Can you do that?"

"Sure. I'm the boss."

"But what about the bad guys? Who'll go after them?"

"My team can handle things for a day." Hotch's voice was devoid of levity. "The bad guys aren't going to win." _I'll make sure of it, Jack. No matter what I have to do, you aren't going to be one of their victims._ "Now I think we should both get some sleep…unless, you wanna talk some more?"

"Uh-uh." The child shook his head, already pulling farther away, brow creased with thought. He perched on the edge of his bed and watched Aaron pull himself together preparatory to heading for his own room. At the door, the elder Hotchner paused, turning halfway back, meeting his son's grave regard.

"We'll work this out, Buddy. I promise."

"I know."

"I love you, Jack. And I'm so proud of you I can't…" A sudden surge of emotion made Hotch bite down on his lip. He didn't want to cry again.

"Even if I act weird and I don't know why?" There was a conditional look in his son's eye that cracked Aaron's heart, widening a fault line through its center.

"No matter what. You wanna know why?" Aaron didn't wait for an answer. "Because I know you. You're my son and I know you better than anyone on earth. Better than you know yourself. And I couldn't ask for a better son. I see things in you, Buddy, that give me hope and joy and a reason to keep fighting the bad guys. You're everything I…" Emotion won. Hotch lost. It was instinct that made him press lips and eyelids closed, cutting himself off for a brief respite. Lately, his frayed ends had been exposed too often. He felt raw. He didn't want to inflict his distress on Jack any more than he already had.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Buddy?" Aaron managed to creak out a response.

"I'm okay to go to school tomorrow."

 _Deep breath…sound calm…_ "You sure?"

"Uh-huh. I feel better now." Hotch watched a small smile blossom, flutter and fade. "If I don't go, it'll look like all that stuff they say…why they treat me like they're sorry for me…like it's true."

"Jack…"

"'S okay."

 _No, it's not…_ Aaron nodded and stepped out into the hallway. His mind centered on the logistics of getting Dr. Fletcher to concentrate on whatever would help Jack, even if it was embedded inside his own psyche and required he be sliced and diced to exhume it. A small voice broke through, making him turn back toward his son's room.

"Dad? I love you, too…and…and I'm proud of you. And you know something else?" His tone turned brighter, as though Jack were making a declaration and daring anyone to argue it. "A lot of kids I know say they wish they had dads like you."

The fault line in Hotch's heart steadied, and maybe even closed a little.

"Thanks, son. See you tomorrow."

Aaron went to his room and began to compose a text for immediate dispatch to Dr. Fletcher.


	29. Moral Injury

The next morning Dr. Fletcher read the text message waiting for him.

 _Well, this is what some people would call serendipity…_

Equal parts anticipation and concern warred within him. So far, Aaron Hotchner had been a tumultuous experience. Not an entirely unpleasant one, though. He was merely a man who's level of tolerance for abuse had been reached, and then surpassed.

 _And when agents overflow, I'm here to wipe up the mess._ He grinned at his own display of ego. _Correction. I'm here to show_ _ **them**_ _how to wipe up their own messes. They're the ones who do all the heavy lifting…Probably should split my fee with them…But, naaaah…_

Musings aside, the psychiatrist harnessed his enthusiasm to study, and maybe even advance some useful reports on a relatively new area of medical interest. He looked at the message once more and concentrated on reading between the lines.

The text from Agent Hotchner thanked him for the previous day's emergency appointment, and then asked if they'd be able to speak again. The sooner the better, although the patient was careful to clarify that this time he wasn't as overwrought as before. 'It's not an emergency really…'

 _Yes it is, Aaron. You're just trying to hide the depth of emotion of which you're capable._ Fletcher sat back and scanned the view outside his office window through narrowed eyes.

He would have preferred to let the patient settle down and reach a point where he could consider pertinent aspects of their previous discussion in a relatively objective light. That usually took at least a week. _But there's nothing 'usual' about Mr. Hotchner._

Fletcher toyed with a pen, tapping it against his desktop in a rapid staccato. At last, he gave a sharp nod. Taking a deep breath, he palmed his phone and began going through his list of contacts. It didn't take him long to find what he wanted…

"Hello? It's Dr. William Fletcher. Would Dr. Mason be available?" While he waited, the psychiatrist pondered how using his honorific title could cut through red tape and reluctance. It was a mere four minutes before he heard a familiar, if somewhat querulous voice on the other end.

"Fletcher? That you? Did you find one?"

"I did, Dr. Mason. A classic case, but I haven't started any deep therapy yet. An FBI agent…"

"FBI? Been in the ranks long?" An anxious lilt transformed the man's tone from irritable to animated.

"Worked his way up to Unit Chief, so…yeah. A career man."

"You sure he isn't just a case of burnout?"

Fletcher paused, rerunning his own observations from the moment Aaron Hotchner had become a blip on his professional radar. "No. I think it's a genuine case of Moral Injury. My first."

"Well…probably not your first, but the first one you're aware of instead of lumping the symptoms in with PTSD. You realize this'll take your treatment in a different direction, don't you?"

Fletcher had forgotten how condescending Mason could be. But the man had been the first to begin to put the pieces together and see why some patients diagnosed with PTSD might not respond to traditional therapy.

Mason had developed a theory. For that, he deserved respect and a little leeway for his lack of personal skills. He'd also shared his concept at a seminar less than six months ago. Fletcher had been fascinated. He'd discussed the topic of Moral Injury Syndrome at length afterwards, plying Mason with dinner and drinks to keep him informative. Apparently, the man enjoyed being at a lectern and the center of attention more than communicating one-on-one. And he was a bit patronizing. "Fletcher? You do realize you'll have to improvise with your patient, right? You capable of that?"

"I do realize. And I am capable. I just thought you'd like to know this guy fits your paradigm."

"You'll take notes? Record sessions if he'll allow it?"

"Yes."

At last, bona fide excitement burst through. "Good God, man! If I'm right, this could open new vistas for the entire psychiatric profession!" An imperious note entered. "Be careful, Fletcher. Don't blow it. And keep me in the loop."

"I'll do my best." _And you're welcome for even thinking of you instead of putting myself front and center._

The redoubtable Dr. Mason hung up, fading out of hearing with mutterings about the likelihood of getting published in the American Medical Association's prestigious, monthly magazine.

After the phone had gone dead, Fletcher regarded it with weary forbearance. His main reason for notifying the man who'd first proposed the concept of Moral Injury Syndrome was with Hotch's best interests in mind. He'd wanted someone knowledgeable who could serve as a sounding board. Missteps could hurt a patient as deeply sensitive to moral issues as Aaron. Mason would be a sort of insurance policy, helping Fletcher feel his way through unfamiliar territory, if necessary.

But he couldn't deny the small thrill that he'd felt for his own advancement, too. Publishing a case study on the ground floor of a newly identified syndrome was a career-making, once-in-a-lifetime-if-ever-at-all opportunity.

"Ah, well…perspective, perspective…" Consoling himself that he was doing the right thing, even though credit-grabbing Dr. Mason might prevail in the public eye, the psychiatrist made his second call of the still-young day.

"Hello, Aaron. It's Dr. Fletcher. I got your message…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch drove Jack to school after ascertaining the boy really did prefer to attend.

He dropped his son at the curb and watched him melt into the small crowd of similarly jeaned and backpacked students making their way into the halls of learning. Gifted all.

 _And even among them, my Jack's 'different' and feeling it._

The child's revelation about having overheard his teachers engaged in idle talk still rankled the Unit Chief. His eyes narrowed. His respiration roughened. He was on the verge of finding a parking place and going into the principal's office to express his displeasure when his phone chimed.

"Hotchner here."

"Hello, Aaron. It's Dr. Fletcher. I got your message…"

And in the beat of a heart Aaron realized there were more lasting, more important things that needed to be accomplished in the name of saving his son than venting anger against gossip.

"Doctor. I, uh…I didn't expect to hear from you so soon…I…uh…"

"I can see you after regular hours today, if that works for you." The words were said with such calm, they belied the gift they were.

But Hotch knew. _He's seeing me on his own time. He's making a space for me and doing it when it'll be open-ended…not the standard, timed session. Wow._ So Aaron felt the need to set things straight from the start. His child was the issue. He didn't care so much about his own welfare. He'd offer himself up if it would help Jack. "Doctor, thank you. I appreciate that more than…well, more than you'll know." He took a deep breath. "I think you should know I talked to my son, and…and…"

"And you're upset. And you want to know how to help him." Fletcher felt a thrill of anticipation, but kept it under strict control. "The best way to help your son is to help yourself, Aaron. And I have some ideas I'd like to run past you. Just remember, what you feel on your son's behalf is probably a lot worse than what he himself feels. I know it's not much, but…" The psychiatrist couldn't keep his excitement corralled anymore. "…but I believe there's a light at the end of your tunnel. And I believe you'll be able to see it sooner than you think. I'm very hopeful."

"Okay. So around five this afternoon?"

"Yes. If I run over with my last patient, it won't be for long. I'll see you then."

"Thanks, Doc. Really."

Hotch ended the call, cast one last, longing look in the direction Jack had gone, and headed for work.

He spent the rest of the day hoping his team wouldn't get called out, and feeling like a frog in a science class waiting to be dissected.

And wondering how much it would hurt.


	30. Last Words

"Let me help."

Rossi's compassion was undeniable. So was the hopeful glint in his eye.

"I don't get to spend as much time with you guys now that Hayden's in the picture. Let me help. You just go do what you have to do and we'll see you later. C'mon, Hotch. It's only a few hours."

"On a school night." The Unit Chief frowned as he packed his briefcase. "He should be eating dinner, doing his homework, and getting to bed on time."

"Hey, it's a slice of pizza and a movie. Not like we're gonna be throwing back shots, breaking down AK-47s, and trolling the red-light district. And I promise the movie'll be G-rated."

Aaron chewed at his bottom lip. He'd planned on picking Jack up from school and then dropping him off at his sister-in-law's for the time it would take him to meet with Dr. Fletcher. He hadn't expected Rossi to volunteer for duty. Or to look so crestfallen when met with resistance.

Plus, it was true that since the senior agent had developed a family of his own, he hadn't been quite so available. _Maybe Jack misses him as much as I do. And maybe he misses us._ "Okay. I'm not sure how long I'll be, but I should be back by eight at the latest."

"Not a problem. Gotcha covered." Rossi's grin expanded. "I'll even help him with his homework afterwards."

At last, a mini-smile twitched at one corner of Hotch's lips. "Jack can do his own homework. That's the best way to learn from it. He only needs help when he gets really stuck."

"Yeah, you're right." Rossi shrugged one shoulder. "Besides, his teachers'll understand if the kid doesn't get it all done for one day, right?"

The comment reminded Aaron of how his son suspected he was being handled with special care, which in turn contributed to making the boy feel different. His face fell. "You say that like it's a good thing."

Dave had been patting his pockets, looking for his car keys. He froze at the troubled look on his friend's lean features. "Cutting a guy some slack _isn't_ a good thing?"

"Not always." Quiet words steeped in pain.

"What's goin' on?" Rossi read his Unit Chief's reluctance. "Aaron, it's me. Talk."

"Nothing…I…" Hotch glanced toward the catwalk beyond his office door, verifying privacy. His voice lowered. "Jack and I talked last night."

"That's great…So?"

"He's been hearing stuff about…about…Haley at school."

Dave's features sagged, losing all animation. "Whaddaya mean… 'stuff?'"

"Stuff I hadn't told him. Yet. So we talked, but I still haven't told him everything." Hotch searched the older man's eyes, anxious for clues that would either validate or condemn. Rossi stayed carefully expressionless.

"Well, you had to talk about it someday. Maybe it's time."

"When's the right time to find out your father's a murderer?"

Dave studied his friend for several, silent moments. They had never really discussed the events of that day. It hadn't seemed necessary, since they both knew what had happened. At least, Rossi _assumed_ he knew. "Is that what you think? That you're a murderer? For saving your son's life?"

Hotch ducked his head, addressing the floor. "Isn't that what _you_ think?"

Dave's mouth opened, then closed, as he thought better of arguing the point. He placed a firm hand on the Unit Chief's back and steered him toward the door.

"What I think is…you should go see Dr. Fletcher."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Despite having requested the meeting, Hotch looked ill at ease as he crossed the psychiatrist's threshold.

Fletcher surveyed the man hovering just inside the door. "I have some things to discuss with you, Aaron. And you have some concerns you want to talk about, too, so how would you like to do this?"

The doctor heard Hotch's audible swallow, broadcasting his anxiety. All Hotch could hear was a replay of Jack's shamefaced revelation that he was 'acting weird,' and didn't know why. He resolved again to do whatever it took to set things right for his son. "I'll do whatever you think will be…will be…"

"Most beneficial to the process?"

"Yes. That."

A wave of sympathy washed through Fletcher, taking the eager edge off his desire to explore what he suspected was a clear case of MI. _It'd be textbook, except it's not really in textbooks yet. You, Agent Hotchner, might change that. Think how many people it would help..._ "Why don't you try lying down on the couch this time, Aaron?" The patient's eyes tracked over to the furniture in question with a mournful look. "I know you think it puts you in a weaker, more subservient position, and that runs counter to an alpha male's nature, but that's not why I'm asking you."

Hotch walked to the couch and sat on the edge, shoulders sagging in defeat. The uncharacteristic obedience made Fletcher feel some justification was needed.

"Aaron, what I want is for you to be as physically relaxed as possible. Your body's in great shape. Your mind and emotions…not so much. By lying down and letting muscle tension go, you're letting your physical aspect take a backseat. Your psyche will be less obstructed. Make sense?"

The doctor's voice was gentle. Hotch nodded. He could accept the premise, but it still felt odd to stretch out as though he were taking a nap; something he rarely did even on the BAU jet after a case. Then, too, he wanted to talk about Jack and his paternal instinct said his posture should be protective, aggressive on his son's behalf… not submissive.

With conscious effort, Aaron shed his jacket and laid down on his back.

Fletcher took his usual position in a chair slightly outside of the Unit Chief's field of vision. He watched his patient's chest rise and fall a bit more rapidly than he'd like. A sign of stress. _I don't have anyone I have to see later, so we're going to take our time, Agent. Come hell or high water, I'm going to get you to relax._ He kept his tone soft and low.

"If this is too difficult, you can always sit up…or take a break…or decide to do it another day…I don't want you to feel like a prisoner, Aaron." _Good. His respiration's a little better._ The psychiatrist allowed himself a small, private smile. _Alpha males need control and I just gave him a little of it back. Good boy…_

Hotch took one deep, cleansing breath. Then another. "I'd like to talk about my son."

"Alright." _Not ready to take center stage yourself, I see._

"Jack…he heard some things at school about how his mother…how she…" Aaron paused, letting the sadness that never seemed to dim well within him.

"It might make it easier if I remind you that I've read all your files. I know what happened."

"You know what, but you don't know _how_. No one does. No one."

Fletcher's professional ears pricked forward.

The FBI reports had been rendered in excruciating detail. Agent Hotchner's team had arrived on the heels of a life-or-death battle to find their leader battered, bruised, sobbing, and up to his elbows in gore as he savaged a corpse with his bare hands.

The doctor couldn't imagine much worse than that.

In fact, it was a key element in his theory about this man's psychological damage. _But he's veering off into territory that puts himself at the forefront, even if he sees it as the emotional environment in which his son is the main player. He can't hide from the pain anymore. Let him continue…_ "You know. So someone _does_ know." Still the same, gentle, coaxing tone. "You're someone, Aaron. You matter."

Hotch's eyes closed. He hated how every time he came here, every time he talked to this man, his emotional control evaporated. But if it benefitted Jack in the long run, he wouldn't fight anymore. _Science class frog…meet Scalpel…_

"You don't understand, Doc."

"I want to. Tell me."

The deepest breath yet; released in a long, slow exhalation like a failed, exhausted stillbirth of a whistle.

"I killed him and I didn't have to."

Fletcher frowned. The inquiry into the incident had stated in no uncertain terms that if Agent Hotchner hadn't used deadly force, his own _and_ his son's life would have been forfeit. Something else was in play here… "Tell me, Aaron. It's okay to tell me."

Hotch felt as though bands of steel were cinching his chest tight. He knew he was breathing, but the sense of suffocation as things hidden oozed their way to the top was making his heart trip into overtime. "I didn't have to kill Foyet. I had a choice. I _chose_ to become a murderer."

Fletcher shook his head, but kept silent. The only words that mattered now were Aaron's.

"I'd won. He knew it. He even said it. His last words… He said 'You got me. I surrender.'" Hotch squeezed his eyes tighter against the memory, against the moment when everything changed.

Against the moment when the storm and the abyss and the monsters saw themselves reflected, and claimed him for their own.

"He said 'I surrender.' … And that's when I decided to kill him anyway."


	31. Pearl

Rossi did his best.

It had been a long time since he'd been in the market for a G-rated movie. But he'd promised Hotch. So, as he waited outside Jack's school, he browsed the internet for Best Ever G-Rated Movies playing in the area. He scowled at the results. 'Bambi' was at the top of the list as an offering in a theatre specializing in vintage films.

His frown deepened. _The kid's young, but not_ _ **that**_ _young. Maybe I should be looking at PG. But I told Aaron it'd be G…_

Then, his eyes flashed wide. _Wait a minute. That's the one where the fawn loses his mother. She gets shot…Nope. Sorry, Hotch. Onward to more adult fare…PG._

The winner was 'Kung Fu Panda 3.' But after all the pondering and temporizing, Dave might have saved himself the trouble. Jack wasn't in the mood for a movie. Especially after he realized that Dad was seeing his special doctor again.

"You have to understand, kiddo. Your dad gets called out at the drop of a hat. He has to take advantage of the time he'll be on his home turf to do all this doctor stuff."

Jack nodded, but had nothing else to contribute.

So the plan was pizza and then home.

Rossi dearly wanted to bring up the subject of Haley's death and see if he could apply some damage control, thus sparing Hotch having to do so. But he bit his lip and kept himself in check. This was father-son territory. Even the best intentions could wreak havoc when havoc's whole family was just loitering about, waiting for someone to let them in.

Dave minded his own business and took it as a good sign when Jack made a point of asking if they could bring a few slices of pizza home for Dad, too.

When they reached the Hotchner abode, Jack stashed the pizza in the refrigerator, thanked Rossi, and went to his room to start on his homework.

As for Dave, he settled himself in Aaron's small office where the Unit Chief's domestic footprint was strongest, and let his mind rove over the day Haley had died and every day since, wondering if he'd missed any clues that his best friend was descending into an abyss where monsters lived, because he considered himself to be one.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch kept his eyes closed and waited for Fletcher to render judgment.

When it came in a form he hadn't expected, his breath hitched in momentary surprise. The doctor's hand pressed into Aaron's shoulder, steady and firm. It activated a sense memory of Rossi doing the same when the older man had found his teammate frightened and disoriented in the aftermath of Peter Lewis's foray into his drugged mind.

"Aaron, I want you to listen to me. I don't expect you to accept what I say as the truth, but I want you to take the words with you and give them due consideration when you feel better…which might not be for a few days, or weeks, or months…but _will_ happen in time."

Hotch stayed quiet, unable to imagine what could make any difference. He was a murderer. He knew it. He'd kept it buried inside for years; the secret epicenter around which his identity orbited.

"I've read everything the Bureau has on file about you. That man who killed your ex-wife, _he_ was a murderer. He was also a master manipulator. You're not. When you spoke before a panel of your superiors, you said there was no doubt in your mind that Mr. Foyet, had he been able to get up, would have killed your son as well. I think you _did_ believe that. And I think somewhere along the line since then, something happened to crack that belief."

Fletcher paused, gathering his thoughts. He didn't want to take over the session with his own theories and suppositions, but something needed to be said. "I'd like to give you a mental picture to consider. A pearl." Beneath his hand, the patient's muscles gave a faint quiver. "A pearl begins with an irritation. It responds by building layers around the irritant until that irritant is buried. Gone. Unrecognizable."

Hotch's voice was a low rumble. "I'm not a pearl. I'm…I'm a…" He couldn't complete the sentence, but the doctor knew the ugly word that would have been added.

"No, you're not. But my point is that given enough time and lack of intervention, the end result is something no one would have imagined given the starting point." Fletcher pressed Hotch's shoulder deeper into the couch cushions for emphasis. "Your self-image has gone through a drastic change from who you were back then. And it's my belief that the process that coated and transformed that original act of violence and the man who committed it, is what we're now calling Moral Injury Syndrome."

Hotch's eyes opened. He gazed at the bland, institutional-beige ceiling while he wished for Reid's eidetic memory as he considered the somewhat familiar terminology. "Isn't that just another facet of PTSD?"

"Moral injury has some of the symptoms of PTSD, which is why it's been flying under the radar for so long. But it _is_ different." Fletcher felt a surge of passion for his new interest now that it was front and center in the presence of not only a patient, but a patient who had a background in psychology. "Someone suffering from Moral Injury Syndrome is especially prone to anger, depression, anxiety, nightmares, insomnia and often self-medicates with drugs or alcohol. He may benefit from some of the same treatments we use for PTSD, but in the long run, it'll keep resurfacing until the base issue is addressed. The thing that distinguishes moral injury is its added burden of guilt, grief, shame, regret, sorrow and alienation. Getting past that requires a very different approach. You have to reach the core of a sufferer's psyche."

The doctor released Hotch's shoulder. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the sadness someone in a position to help others does when the phrase 'If we'd only known…' emerges.

"Like so many mental disorders, MIS was first postulated in the treatment of veterans…returning soldiers who were emotionally damaged, who hid their agony because they were ashamed of its cause. That was the first challenge: to expose that closely-guarded experience that was haunting them." The psychiatrist's voice faded, thinking of the scores of men and women for whom help never came.

In the silence that followed, Hotch's audible swallow jarred Fletcher from his reflections. He sensed his academic statements needed to be infused with something of comfort. This wasn't just a man with psychological knowledge lying on his couch. It was another soul in suffering.

"Aaron, you've already made a big step forward. You identified the root cause of your pain. Most of the vets who are victims of MIS don't seek treatment. They're ashamed to admit to anyone that they've done something so morally repugnant. Sometimes it's because they were ordered to, so they feel betrayed. Sometimes it was by mistake and they can't forgive themselves. And sometimes…" Fletcher slowed, giving the words added weight. "…sometimes it was because they were pushed too far. What was done to them was more than they could bear without lashing back. It was emotional survival at its most primal." He paused, waiting for the concept to sink in, hoping on some level, even if he couldn't yet acknowledge it, Hotch would discern his kinship with those other victims. But then…

"I killed when I didn't have to."

The psychiatrist emitted a silent sigh. It was all very well to expound on developing theories, but this patient needed a guiding hand. Even if Hotch knew what was hurting, he couldn't apply that knowledge to himself. _He's only human. He might accept the logic of MIS, but his heart will still ache with regret and shame and years of blame. This is not something that is cured quickly._

"Aaron, do you honestly think if you'd done the gentlemanly thing and accepted Mr. Foyet's surrender…if you'd believed his last words…that he _wouldn't_ have jumped at the first opportunity to turn the tables on you? Can you _really_ believe you could have trusted him not to?"

Hotch was quiet, but it wasn't the stillness of uncertainty. Fletcher could sense the effort it took for his patient to dig into his past, brutalizing his memories in the name of honesty.

"No. I couldn't trust him. But I didn't have to kill him." The Unit Chief's eyes closed again, shutting the world out because he didn't want it to see the ugliness he harbored. "I could have disabled him. I could have knocked him out and stopped before…before…" Again, the center of Aaron's agony went unspoken.

Fletcher studied his patient's reclining form. _He came here to talk about his son…_ When he continued, his tone was soft, insinuating itself into Hotch's mind in an effort to get past the obstacles erected by years of privately hoarded guilt. "You say that now, Aaron, but it sounds like the result of endless examination and recrimination. So, let me ask you this: How much do you recall of that day? How much real memory do you have, as opposed to hindsight and interminable, solitary analysis?"

There was no response. _He's wearing his self-reproach like a lifejacket when it's just the opposite; an anchor mooring him to a very dark, lonely place._

"I don't know anymore." Small…unsure…the voice of a lost boy, of someone so exhausted and weakened, even if a clear path were set before him, he might not have the strength to see himself out of the woods.

"I'm not surprised. You've really never stopped living that day, have you? It's been playing over and over like a recording that alters an infinitesimal amount each time."

Hotch's breathing had roughened again, worse than when he'd first taken a reluctant position on the couch. "The details don't matter, Doctor. I…killed…And I didn't have to."

Fletcher inhaled. He sensed they were coming to a tricky fork in the road. _Forgive me if I hurt you, Aaron…_ The copious reports and investigations were fresh in his mind. "So you're telling me that the whole time you were fighting for your life…fighting for your son's life…the whole time the corpse of the woman you loved was upstairs…during all that, you should have had the physical well-being of Mr. Foyet uppermost in your mind?"

The doctor could see Hotch's features from an angle. His eyes were open again. There was stunned horror in them.

"I know how the human mind works, Agent Hotchner. I guarantee you that at the moment you killed that man, you weren't thinking of his death. You were thinking of life. Yours. Your son's. And the one that had been stolen from the mother of your child. You were thinking of life, Aaron.

"And I don't need to tell you that that is _not_ what the mind of someone committing premeditated murder contains."

Fletcher watched his patient's eyes dart, taking a desperate look back in time, trying to resurrect the events from beneath years of mental images applied after the fact.

"You're not a murderer, Aaron."

 _But even if you believe me, you still have a very long road before you. So does your son._

 _And if you_ _ **don't**_ _believe me? Well, I still have some ammunition in reserve..._


	32. One High Hurdle

The pain kept building.

Hotch tensed every muscle in his body against it.

No use. Waves of something searing were welling up from a place deep and secret that, if it weren't for Jack, Hotch would have kept buried until he was in his grave.

When his son had said that he was 'acting weird' and that people were beginning to notice, it had resonated in his father. Even though Aaron had argued against it, when he'd been arrested and questioned and accused, he had felt a wedge of ice dig into that private place where he cast judgment on himself. It pried open the door he'd slammed shut to the rest of the world and made him wonder if he was so vile, so false, that his damage was spilling over onto his child.

 _The monster will out_ , he thought. _Even if I don't see it, the monster will out…_

At the moment it felt as though the monster _was_ tearing its way out. The torturous pain of Foyet's knife had been nothing compared to this soul-rending, helpless deluge as all the agony from the time his marriage began to crack, through Foyet's attack and the enforced separation from his family, through the feel of Foyet's gore beneath his nails, through passing out and finding himself in post-op thanks to scars inflicted by the Reaper, through Peter Lewis's laughter, through handcuffs snicking around his wrists to the tune of his son's terrified cries... All of it spewed forth. He had no more control than that science class frog who surely hadn't suffered this much.

Hotch couldn't stand it. In abrupt, jerky movements he swung his legs around and pulled himself up to sit on the couch's edge. He wrapped his arms around himself in a comfortless hug. He bent from the hips, leaning over his thighs. He rocked.

Nothing helped.

His mind was skittering between mnemonic touchstones, images that had been burned into him by virtue of their trauma. _And now I'm being told that I've been augmenting them? Dwelling on them and rewriting them? I don't know what's real anymore?..._

"You are not a murderer, Aaron." The calm, slow words kept repeating, droning beneath the waves of hurt.

"You are not a murderer, Aaron." Fletcher held himself in check. It was human nature to reach out and physically comfort someone in pain, but it crossed the lines of professional wisdom. The poison within this man needed to drain. Hugging and holding were too often seized upon and used to stopper the flow of honest emotion. No hugs. This would be a war fought with words.

"You are _not_ a murderer, Aaron."

Hotch gripped himself harder. A flash of realization…and the pain began to ebb. _If I've rewritten everything when I was there and I know what happened…what about Jack? I didn't think he could recall much of it, but…_ His boy's voice had said that one word that opened the door to a world of doubt. _George. He remembered George, the bad guy. What does that day look like when it lives in my son's mind?..._

It was an arctic ache.

He went still.

All Aaron felt was cold.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi came out of his thoughts with a start.

He glanced at his watch. Hotch had said he'd be back no later than eight. It was almost nine. Dave leaned over and switched on the lamp standing sentinel beside Aaron's desk. He scrubbed a hand across his face and sighed.

 _I guess it's a good sign that no one's called, but what the hell are they doing for hours?_

He stood, stretching the kinks out of his spine and went to check on Jack.

A light knock on the boy's bedroom door was met with a distracted 'Yeah.' Rossi eased the door open just enough to poke his head through the crack and locate Jack at his own miniature version of Hotch's desk.

"Dad's not home yet," Jack stated. It wasn't a question.

"I guess he's making good use of the doctor's time before we're called out into the field again."

"Yeah. Guess so."

"So what time does your dad usually say you have to be in bed?"

Shrugging, Jack resumed scribbling in a notebook, chin resting in one hand. "About nine-thirty or ten." He stopped writing, looking up at the man wedged in the doorway. "You think he'll be home by then?"

Rossi sighed. "I don't know, kiddo. But I think I'll stay over, if that's okay with you, since you're the man of the house while your dad's away."

A faint smile traced the corner of Jack's lips. He knew he had no say in being left alone in the house, but he always appreciated how his father's best friend made him feel as though he controlled more than he did.

Even if it wasn't true, it was reassuring when so much of his life felt completely _out_ of control.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Fletcher watched stillness like a shroud descend over his patient.

He didn't think for a moment that it meant Hotch had come to terms with his emotional wounds. That kind of progress would take long days and weeks of introspection and guidance. For now, the doctor would be content with seeing the agent past this first hurdle.

Fletcher would consider it a personal victory if he could coax even some brief eye contact or conversation out of the man at this point.

"Aaron, can you look at me?"

Hotch remained perched on the edge of the couch, arms crossed over his midriff, gripping as though he were holding something in, or himself together. A distant glaze in his eyes sent a shiver of concern through the psychiatrist.

"Aaron, I know this is hard. You need time more than anything else right now. I'm going to send an order through to the Bureau for you to take a mandatory day off. You don't need to do anything. Your mind will sort itself out while you're otherwise occupied. But you'll be easily distracted for the next few days. That's not something an FBI agent should carry into the field with him. So…day off."

"I came here to talk about my son…" Hotch's voice was as distant as his gaze.

"And we will. It'll be much more beneficial to him if we discuss him later."

Hotch nodded, looking vague and unable to dispute anything.

"Where is your son right now?"

"Uh…he's…he's with Dave…Rossi…you met him…" The Unit Chief blinked, remembering he'd made some sort of commitment, or kind-of-promise. He glanced at his watch. "I said I'd be home by eight…" He began to lumber to his feet. "I should…I should go…"

Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't have felt right about sending his patient away when he was in psychic shock, but knowing that Agent Rossi would meet him, and knowing that Rossi was a profiler, the doctor was confident Hotch would get from point A to point B and find some companionable consolation when he did.

"Aaron, just a few more things. You got hurt here tonight. In a few hours, you won't feel much of anything. It'll be like shock. Things will filter down in their own time, so don't worry. You _will_ recover. Take it easy tomorrow. Stay home. Call me if you need to talk." _That man has the saddest eyes I think I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot…_

Hotch began to make a slow way toward the door, patting himself down for his car keys. Fletcher followed him out. Having refrained from offering more than token physical comfort during their session, the doctor at last allowed himself to do so. He took Hotch's shoulders. After lightly rubbing them, he held his patient still, face to face, encouraging him to focus.

"I told you I read your files, Aaron. Probably some you don't even know exist. I know you've killed a number of men in the line of duty. Part of why killing George Foyet upset you so profoundly was that _that_ kill benefited _you_ most of all. When you were saving others, it wasn't so bad. When you were saving yourself, you were conflicted."

He gave Hotch's shoulders a final squeeze before letting go.

"Aaron, you need to learn that you are just as worthy of being saved as anyone. Perhaps even more so, considering the good you do in the world."

Having planted one last seed, Fletcher released his patient into the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch didn't remember the drive home. He was on autopilot.

He didn't snap out of it until his key hit the lock and he walked through his front door.

And Rossi saw his face.

And enveloped him in a hug so fierce Aaron didn't need to hold himself together anymore. Other arms could do the job much better.


	33. Shock Talk

"Shhhhh…Shhhhh…"

A tiny portion of Hotch's brain found itself bemused by the power of wordless communication. How comforting a simple, hissing, shushing sound could be. It had no meaning. Or many meanings. It didn't analyze, or discuss, or question. It asked nothing, yet instructed one to be quiet and accept what was offered.

What was offered felt good.

Rossi engulfed his friend, squeezing the Unit Chief's ribs just short of cracking. Leaving enough leeway for breath, but not for sobs. Compressing whatever demons gnawed him down to a manageable size.

It took a while.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A little after ten.

Jack was in bed, but he heard the opening door, the soft jingle of keys, the padding footsteps and murmured sounds. He slipped out to the hallway, peeked around the corner, and paused.

No danger of being seen.

Rossi's back was to him, and his father's face was buried in the angle between the older man's neck and shoulder. Jack knew what it felt like to hide against someone like that. But he didn't know how it felt to be the one doing the sheltering. His large, solemn eyes blinked, and he wished he were big enough to hold Daddy when he needed it.

The two men stood very still while Dave made whispery sounds and snugged his arms tighter around Aaron.

When Hotch made a gasping noise and began to push away, Jack melted into the shadows and returned to his room.

He hoped Mr. Rossi remembered that they'd brought home extra pizza.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Got a little rough, did he?"

Dave let Aaron disengage, noting that he kept his head down, eyes lowered. _I swear, if that guy ripped into you for_ _ **any**_ _thing, Hotch, I'll personally tear him a new one._

"No. Not him." It was a small voice to begin with; it faded into an interval of lip chewing.

"Wanna talk about it?"

The Unit Chief took a deep, shaky breath and, at last, looked up. "How'd it go with Jack?"

 _Alright, we'll change the subject. You can call the shots for about ten minutes. Then, I'm taking over._ "Quiet evening for us. Didn't do the movie. Just ate and came home. He did homework and kept to his bedtime. We'll do that AK-47 and throwing-back-shots thing another time." _Jeez. Not even one of those fake half-smiles._

Rossi took Hotch, turned him, and gave him a gentle push toward his room. There was no humor in his voice now. "Go take a shower, Aaron. Close your eyes and pretend the water's washing away everything that happened. Everything. Then come back out here."

Hotch moved, but detoured toward Jack's room. With exaggerated care, he edged the door open and slipped inside.

Watching, Dave sighed, crossed his arms, and settled in to wait. He wanted to make sure Aaron's final destination was indeed the shower and a symbolic rinsing off of his palpable coating of distress.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack was only minutes ahead of his father, slipping back into his bed before anyone realized he'd been spying. When the door began to open, he shut his eyes and regulated his breathing, making it slower and deeper in imitation of true slumber.

He didn't have to see to know it was Daddy's presence that entered and came close to the bedside. Before he could stop it, a small smile crept out. It always made him feel safe when Daddy checked on him. Usually, he'd just stand there for a minute or two. Sometimes he'd bend close and Jack could tell Daddy was inhaling his scent. The boy understood this. He loved the aroma of soap and strength that he associated with his father.

This time was different, though.

Daddy knelt down and whispered in a voice heavy with regret and the aftermath of tears.

"Hey, Buddy." There was a deep sigh and Jack could feel the mattress dip just a little. He could tell his father was close, resting his chin on the bed as he watched his son's soft, even breathing.

"Hey, Buddy…I love you…More than anything…And I promise…whatever's wrong, I'm gonna do my damnedest to fix it…"

Another smile caressed the littlest Hotchner's lips. His ruse was successful: Daddy would never have said 'damn' if he thought he'd be heard.

"…but no matter what, I want you to know you're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Jack almost gave himself away when Daddy's lips brushed the lightest of kisses across his forehead. It tickled.

"I love you, Buddy…Sleep tight."

There was a deeper depression of the mattress as Hotch levered himself up. Silent steps took him to the door.

He paused, visually feasting on the small person who exercised such power over him. It was, and always would be, terrifying.

"Love you, Buddy," he whispered once more…

After the door closed with a faint click, Jack sighed as he nestled down into his pillow. Daddy was home. And Mr. Rossi was here, too.

He could sleep now.

And maybe there wouldn't be any dreams.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm not really hungry."

A damp, post-shower Hotch regarded the two slices of warmed-up pizza Rossi slid before him. He felt curiously blank. Curious, but not entirely unfamiliar. Nor unexpected.

After all, Dr. Fletcher had warned him about emotional shock. Aaron's lips thinned in a mirthless grimace. _You called it, Doc: a couple of hours down the road and I wouldn't feel much of anything, you said. Right on point._

"You don't have to eat, but Jack picked these out especially for you." Rossi played his trump card. "If he sees them tomorrow, it'll be kinda like leaving cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve and seeing them uneaten Christmas morning. That can be…" He shook his head, contemplating the ramifications of untouched food. "… _so_ not good…"

Only Hotch's eyes moved, fixing on the older man from beneath his brows. It would have been a fine glower if it had had any power behind it. Instead, it was weary and dull. But Aaron did pull the plate closer and did take a dutiful, if unenthusiastic, bite.

He managed five of them before deciding he'd met an acceptable goal when it came to demonstrations of appreciation for son-provided pizza slices. He pushed the leftovers away, crossed his arms on the tabletop, and lowered his head to them, looking like a kindergartener at nap time.

Rossi waited. When it became apparent that Hotch had taken a vow of silence, he cleared his throat. "You wanna at least tell an old man that you're okay so he won't worry?"

After a few beats Aaron's voice emerged, muffled and thick, from the tabletop lump he'd become. "Wish I could."

Dave sat up straighter, frowning. "Hey, it's me…what's goin' on? What happened with that shrink?"

More than a few beats passed this time, but Hotch's words were still blurred. "Dave, do you remember…do you remember the really bad days? The ones that hurt the most?"

"Wha'd'you mean?"

A harsh inhale followed by a shuddering exhale. "Do you remember the day Foyet…the day Haley…"

Seeing his friend's stumbling progress toward broaching a painful subject, Rossi stepped in to spare him. "The day you saved Jack? Yes. Of course, I remember." His frown deepened. "Why?"

Aaron raised his head, turning the strangely disconnected gaze of a man shocked numb toward Dave.

"Would you tell me what happened? Please?"

Rossi stared back.

He'd gone a little numb himself.


	34. Evil Seed

Rossi stared, concern and confusion doing a gradual takeover.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Hotch." It was hard to bear the pleading look in his Unit Chief's eyes. "Seriously. What is it you're asking? More importantly…why?"

Aaron never broke eye contact. He was desperate for clues, anything that would either deny or affirm his opinion of himself. He'd already blurted it once to Rossi. Now he was sorry for that slip. It would have been better to hear it unsolicited from his best friend's lips, but if he had to draw it out…fine. It would prove the psychiatrist wrong. It would prove Hotch hadn't been retracing his self-portrait in progressively more damning lines ever since That Day. It would mean someone else saw him for what he felt himself to be.

He took a shallow breath…it was all he could manage at the moment…and spoke with slow, deliberate words. "Tell me about what happened."

Silence as Rossi's frown deepened. "Why?'

"I need to hear you say it."

In slow motion, Dave's chin raised. He regarded the younger man from beneath hooded lids. His voice was deadly calm. "Does this have anything to do with calling yourself a murderer, Aaron?"

Hotch swallowed, but didn't flinch or blink. He knew he should have expected as much from a profiler, _and_ his best friend, _and_ someone to whom he'd already revealed the darkness he felt hunkered down within himself.

Rossi locked eyes with his boss. He'd spent some time reviewing their long acquaintance, but precious few warning signs about incipient monster-hood had surfaced. He could recall a very short conversation on the nature of evil. Considering the gravity of the subject matter, the discussion had bordered on superficial. Morgan had asked Hotch for his views on the genesis of evil.

The Unit Chief had said that he thought deep down everyone was capable of unspeakable acts. He'd hedged on naming any sources, leaving the debate of Satan, and Evil, and nurture versus nature undecided. At the time, Rossi had thought Aaron was either too tired to go further, or exercising diplomacy when it came to the varying beliefs of his teammates.

Now, however, the image that emerged strongest was how Hotch had avoided meeting anyone's eyes, addressing his words to the snow-flecked pavement. _Didn't seem important at the time, but was he claiming kinship with evil-doers even then?_ Dave's eyes narrowed more as he studied his leader. _Was that your way of putting us on notice? Were you trying to tell us that_ _ **you**_ _were capable of the unspeakable?_ But that small, seemingly insignificant exchange had been long before Foyet's death.

There had been times when he'd known Aaron identified with various aspects of cases and even of unsubs. Hell, there were times for _all_ of them when a quirk of fate or a twisted personality found its echo in a teammate; but it was a faded echo, not a stentorian shout of complicity.

Hotch was waiting for an answer.

"You've killed, Aaron. So have I."

"There's a difference."

"How do you figure?" Rossi raised one brow.

At last the dead look in Hotch's eye wavered. He blinked. "I told Fletcher that I had a choice. He didn't agree."

"Smart man. What else ya got?" Dave was being deliberately provocative, hoping to jar the younger man away from what seemed a useless, destructive line of reasoning.

"I didn't tell him everything."

"Like?"

Rossi's eyes strayed to Aaron's neck. The muscles were tensed. A vein pulsed. The architecture of Hotch's neck was one of the barometers Dave used to judge his stress levels. It was also something he had never mentioned; a secret, biological 'tell.' He watched as the man's heart rate visibly increased.

A fine sheen of perspiration began to break out on the Unit Chief's upper lip. "Like…" He swallowed and dropped his gaze to the ground. "…when I had Foyet down, it all made sense."

"What did?"

Rossi couldn't tell if the pause was over-long or if it only seemed so because he was straining for Hotch's reply. At last Aaron drew in a sharp breath before continuing in a rush, as though anxious to make a clean break of it and finally spill the toxic waste accumulated inside him.

"I understood unsubs better than I ever had. How easy it is to make that choice and kill because you want to."

"May I remind you that there was nothing 'easy' about it? Foyet pushed you for _months_ , Aaron." Dave's tone dropped low with the memory of his own suppressed anger as he watched his friend in torment. "I watched you lose weight. I watched you lose interest in anything but getting your family back. I watched you lose sleep. Worst of all, I watched you lose hope. Don't you dare tell me that _anything_ about that time in your life, including the moment it finally was over, was _easy_."

For a moment it seemed that Hotch hadn't heard Rossi's impassioned words. The dead, distant, speculative look had come back into his eyes; a look that matched his voice when he at last spoke. "Do you remember Jonny McHale?"

Dave's puzzled look went unnoticed. Aaron continued without waiting for an answer. "He killed without mercy. They murdered the woman he loved and the baby she was carrying and…" A momentary light flashed into Hotch's eyes. "…and they stabbed _him_ , too. Almost killed him. Just like me…I didn't think of that until just now…just like me…"

"Wait. That was the comic book guy, right?" No response. The Unit Chief was staring inward at new knowledge, new kinship with monsters. A shiver of ice slid up Rossi's spine… _you were so quiet on the flight home after that case, Aaron. Years later when Haley's blood was seeping into the carpet of the room where you two had made love, had made Jack… you had some sudden sympathy for that guy? For what he did?_ "Jonny McHale lost his mind, Hotch. He went out night after night and slashed people limb from limb, and _he didn't remember doing it_! That's nothing like what you went through!"

Aaron blinked, pulling away from whatever inner visions had claimed him. He turned his full focus on Dave. "Isn't it? Jonny McHale went out and avenged himself on the people who killed the woman he loved. And there was no question that he was an unsub…a murderer."

"He had a psychotic break, Aaron!" Rossi regarded his friend with stunned disbelief. "How can you even begin to compare yourself to some sword-wielding, amnesiac vigilante?"

"I hunted Foyet, too. Night after night, day after day. In the end, I left you guys behind and went after him on my own, didn't I? And McHale was suffering from PTSD, right? Wasn't that how we explained his blocking out the murders? And now I'm being told I have PTSD, too, as well as this Moral Injury Syndrome thing. And the way I remember it, Dave, I _enjoyed_ getting my hands bloody with Foyet. It felt good. It felt right. And everything I believe and work for is screaming at me now that murder is _never_ right! So I'm asking you…Dave, please…how do you remember that day? Was that the way it was? How far outside the lines did I go?"

Hotch stopped, breathing hard with emotion and release; the pleading look back in his eyes. Rossi was staring, one hand frozen mid-rub over his beard. At last, his head began a slow, repetitive shake.

"Aaron, I know you. I know you inside out. I know what makes you tick, and what ticks you off. I know you so well, if I wanted to, I could manipulate you seven ways from Sunday. But I had no idea you were carrying all…all _this_ …inside of you, which makes me think..."

"Then maybe you don't really know me at all." It was a weak and despairing interruption; a man seeing hope drifting out of reach.

"No. I _do_ know you. No one better. And this isn't you. This is something Peter Lewis created and planted and masterminded. He put doubt in you and just waited for the day when he could set it off; when he could fan it into life. And he did. With that trumped up crap he spread all around the DOJ."

Hotch looked as desolate as he felt. He _did_ feel guilty about killing Foyet. He always had…or so he thought. But he trusted Rossi, and now, if Dave was right and this was some seed planted with psychotropic drugs, then…

…then he had _no_ idea what was real anymore.


	35. Leveling Up

That evening Dr. William Fletcher reclined in his favorite chair and engaged in his favorite activity: mentally reviewing the successes of the day.

It was his way of rewarding himself with a little ego-stroking when he thought a patient was making amazing progress. _Although_ , he chided himself, _helping someone fight their demons and shed their baggage is the really big reward in and of itself._

Perhaps he could be excused for this particular session of self-congratulation. He actually _needed_ a pat on the back. He'd ended his workday by taking a call from the brilliant, if irascible, Dr. Mason, the man who was squarely center stage in the newly emerging field of moral injury. Despite the accomplishments with Agent Hotchner, Mason gave Fletcher short shrift.

"What do you mean you didn't record the sessions, Fletcher?"

"There really wasn't time to even broach the subject. I'm sorry, but this patient moves fast and when he's diving into his own psyche, he takes all my attention. I didn't have a chance to slow down and ask his permission. I didn't want to interrupt the flow…. I'm sorry," Fletcher repeated his apology even though he felt somewhat resentful. He was the one on the front lines. Mason was akin to a general sitting at headquarters and issuing commands with no visceral experience of the battle.

"Do you realize the opportunity you're letting slip away? _Do you_?" The senior doctor's voice rose, making Fletcher wince at the audible censure. "This FBI agent is a _credible_ patient! Not some character whose damage can't be traced to specific occurrences! Not someone with a shady connection to how they accrued all that mental and emotional baggage! And if he's making the progress you claim, and you're not recording…" Mason faded into expressions of disbelief. When he began to bemoan the fate that had made Agent Hotchner Fletcher's patient instead of his, Fletcher had apologized once more, said he'd try to do better, and hung up. Then, he'd steamed all the way home, and thanked God that Mason was more a researcher than a practicing psychiatrist with a roster of patients. If Hotch had ended up in Mason's care, he'd be nothing more than a token of the man's ambition.

Now, reviewing his session with Aaron, the conversation with Mason was replaying as well on an almost subliminal level...

Something about the two jolted Fletcher's mental meandering to a cold, quick halt.

Hotch's progress _had_ been amazing. Astonishingly so. As Mason intimated, _incredibly_ so.

It was too good.

Too much. And too fast.

The agent had gone from aggressively resentful to requesting… _No…_ _ **demanding**_ _…_ more frequent appointments. Fletcher had been dazzled by the depths and the revelations and the emotion. The bigger picture had formed so quickly that he hadn't taken time to inspect it.

 _Can't be real…Aaron's not faking it, though…_ The doctor had had patients who had tried to convince him that they were 'cured.' He was experienced enough to see through them. Hotch wasn't like that. _But something's not right…_

End-of-the-day rewards forgotten, Fletcher nearly sprinted to his home office. Frowning, he pulled up the online files the Bureau had provided.

From the beginning, and late into the night, the doctor went over Aaron's official reviews again. Very, very slowly.

 _I missed something. As thorough as I was, I missed something…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They ended up sitting across from each other at the kitchen table.

Rossi's idea. He wanted to observe every tiny nuance and 'tell' that played across his best friend's physical aspect.

Hotch had retreated into his distant, disconcerting look; eyes fixed on inner visions with an intensity equal to Dave's, which were fastened on him. A good ten minutes passed before Rossi made an attempt to rouse the Unit Chief.

"Aaron, if you're reliving killing Foyet, all you're doing is running in circles. You…"

"I'm not." Softly said, but with such conviction, it cut Dave off. "I'm thinking of other stuff…other people."

"Wanna share?"

Hotch blinked, coming more fully out of his introspection, giving the older man a considering look. "Wouldn't mean anything to you. You didn't know her."

"Who?"

"Elle Greenaway. She was here after you left, and she was gone before you came back." He ducked his head with shame. "I made her leave. So on top of everything else, I'm a hypocrite."

"I know who she was." Rossi met the questioning look in Aaron's eyes. "Hey, you forgetting who started this whole thing? The BAU? Gideon and I kept in touch. I know what went down with Greenaway. What I don't get is how that makes you a hypocrite."

Hotch regarded Dave with an expression that said he found it difficult to believe the link he saw wasn't obvious to both of them. "I was 99.9% sure she murdered an unsub. He got to her just the way Foyet got to me…reached someplace where you throw away all your beliefs, all you've lived by and been working for, and do what _you_ want. Go rogue. Go so far outside the lines there's no way back." Rossi saw nothing but sad, dark misery in his friend. "I drummed Elle out of the Bureau. And I would have arrested her and seen her prosecuted, if I'd had any definite proof. But here I am, a killer…because the circumstances were right and I knew I could get away with it. Maybe they had good reason to arrest me. Maybe they _should_ have put me away."

"All right. That's enough." Dave's voice snapped with frustration, bordering on anger. "I read the report on Greenaway and I discussed her at length with Gideon." He leaned in to fully engage his Unit Chief. "There's no comparison. You were in a life-and-death, hand-to-hand combat situation, Aaron. Agent Greenaway wasn't. There's no connection between you and poor, psychotic Jonny McHale, and no similarity worth a damn between you and Elle Greenaway. None. And what really makes me mad is that you haven't discussed this with that shrink! Why the hell not?"

Such a small, lost answer… "I don't know. I really don't."

Rossi could tell by the way Hotch's eyes darted, by the beats of silence that passed, that this wasn't the type of conversation Aaron had anticipated.

He wondered if it was one Peter Lewis had foreseen…

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two a.m. and Dr. Fletcher's eyes were gritty from tracking words across a too-bright monitor.

He leaned back in his chair, a sick feeling deep in his stomach. The matter of Agent Hotchner was multi-leveled.

 _We discounted the things Lewis said in the end, but what we should have done was re-interpret them. We should have taken Lewis's determination and conviction into consideration. He was hiding in plain sight. That's why he gave that testimony. He knew it would be disproved and what he did to Hotchner, once the brass knew it involved drugging him, would require psychoanalysis in addition to the standard psych review._

Fletcher rubbed a hand across his brow, feeling anything but self-congratulatory now.

 _That bastard wanted Aaron in psychoanalysis. He set up some kind of compulsion for the guy to get over-emotional and, once we started, to actually seek more and more of that kind of help._

The doctor leaned his face into the palms of his hands, feeling professional rage toward the unsub who was playing fast and free with an innocent man's mental health.

 _I have to dig deeper, and I have to figure out what Lewis's real game is…where he wanted this to lead._ With a weary sigh deep enough to make his bones ache, Fletcher raised his head. _Well, at least I was right about one thing._

 _Agent Hotchner's psyche_ _ **is**_ _a minefield; bigger and more elaborate than anything I've ever had to walk through up to now. God, I hope I don't make any missteps that blow the guy apart._


	36. A Matter of Perception

Rossi studied the younger man with increasing concern.

Hotch's dark eyes roamed, no longer focused inward. Now they had the movement and expression of a panicked animal. Dave couldn't help envisioning a wild stallion roped and hobbled for the first time, eyes rolling, unsure of what fate had in store, trying to find an escape route, or at least keep the enemy in sight.

 _But where are you trapped, Aaron? And who do you see as the enemy?_

He kept his voice calm. "So when's your next appointment with Fletcher?"

"Uh…I don't know…Next week, I guess." The Unit Chief's gaze came to rest on Rossi. "I wish it were sooner." Dark eyes filled with secret torment. "He's making me stand down tomorrow. I guess he thought I needed time off to…to think, but…" The baritone voice trailed off; thoughts going someplace where words were useless, so remained unsaid.

But Dave knew. A tempest was building in his friend. Time to mull things over was not an attractive proposition. He reached across the table, taking a firm grip of his teammate's wrist, hoping it would tether him to something…some _one_ …safe. "Listen to me, Aaron. Take a deep breath and stay with me here." He gave Hotch a moment. When the man nodded and didn't pull away, Rossi continued.

"I think we both know enough about human behavior to know that something's wrong. And we both know that we need help to figure it out, which is where Fletcher comes in. So, all the pieces are in place: we got you, we got me, we know there's work to do, and we got the shrink. So overall…you could say we got this. Don't let it work on you, okay?"

Hotch swallowed, fully attentive, but every 'tell' screaming confusion and growing fear. "Dave? What's going on? I…it's like…I…" He fell silent, unable to explain or quantify the unraveling feeling inside. He edged closer to Rossi despite the table between them; a sign the older man could read with ease.

"Ya know, I'm already planning on staying the night. I think I'll call in sick tomorrow, too."

"You don't have to do that, Dave."

The shrug was very Italian and very eloquent. "I want to."

"I'll be okay."

"Sure you will."

"I mean…alone."

"You won't be alone. I'll be here."

Another swallow; a hard one in a parched throat. "What do you think's wrong with me?"

This time Rossi was the one who needed a moment. "I'm no psychiatrist, Aaron. We know a lot as profilers, but nothing near what the docs do."

"Not asking for a diagnosis, Dave." Hotch edged even closer, letting the table's edge dig into his ribs. "Just want your thoughts. Please."

"Alright…alright…" Rossi nodded, squeezing the wrist in his grip as a sign of comfort and continued connection. After a long, thoughtful pause, he gave a decisive nod. "From what you've said here tonight, I think you're either mis-remembering or rewriting cases that hit you harder than most; ones that got into you and left some hurt behind." He met the Unit Chief's hungry stare. "I don't know the mechanics of it or the first thing about how someone would go about doing that to you, but I'm pretty sure I _do_ know _who_ did it."

Aaron's posture caved. No longer straining toward the security Rossi represented, he deflated. If Dave had had to describe the transformation in one of his books, he'd have said that defeat and dread had accomplished a perfect union, like an unstoppable, chronic condition that ran so deep it might have been termed 'congenital.'

"Lewis. Peter Lewis." Hotch's tone was dead, leaden...

…and absolutely certain.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Fletcher couldn't recall ever being so frustrated.

He'd combed through the official reports concerning Agent Hotchner. He'd reviewed the notes he always made after appointments. There was nothing to refute his original diagnosis of PTSD plus a case of MIS that had been growing with each action that conflicted with this patient's highly developed sense of justice.

He glanced at the clock presiding over one corner of his desk and grimaced. _If I don't get some sleep, I'll be useless to_ _ **all**_ _my patients tomorrow, not just one, poor FBI agent._

He gave a jaw-cracking yawn and pushed back from his computer, reaching to switch off the monitor. His hand froze in midair.

 _Wait a minute. I started this whole goose chase because Aaron's perspective regarding these mandatory sessions with me underwent a sea-change. A big one. All out of proportion with his initial interaction with me._ Fletcher leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. _His perspective changed and he's blaming himself beyond all reason for killing a man in a clear case of self-defense. So…one change in perception might be understandable, but…two?_ _Two in psych terms is the possible start of a pattern._ He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble he'd need to shave off in a couple of hours before heading to work.

 _I wonder…Are you viewing other things differently, too, Aaron?_

An hour later, mind too active for sleep, the psychiatrist showered, shaved and dressed for another day at the office, all the while running through possible scenarios to test Hotch's views. By the time Fletcher decided he might as well drive in to work, he'd also revived his eager anticipation for his next meeting with the undoubtedly troubled, but increasingly fascinating, Agent Hotchner.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It was a morning of mixed signals for Jack.

Daddy was dour and tired, eyes red-rimmed. Both he and Mr. Rossi kept up determinedly cheerful facades, informing the boy that they'd be spending the day together at home, because Daddy needed some rest. Jack could tell there was something else going on, but he didn't try to learn more. He had the feeling it was one of those things adults like to pretend are secret. Grown-ups liked to think little kids couldn't pick up on the signs of something being wrong. Most of the time, little kids let them get away with it.

So Jack accepted the situation and played along, giving both men sidelong looks when they weren't watching.

He decided to be content that the pizza he'd brought home for Dad had several bites taken out of it. The contentment drained away, however, when Mr. Rossi spoke to Jack in his room in a soft voice so Daddy wouldn't hear, warning him that he might need to spend the night with Aunt Jessie.

Jack didn't have much chance to worry, though. Once he was dropped off at school, questions and concerns took a backseat to the matter of pre-teen social survival in the educational system.

When stray thoughts of home intruded, the littlest Hotchner was just glad once again that Daddy wasn't alone. Mr. Rossi would never let anything bad happen.

He wished Mr. Rossi had been there when George had come to call on Mommy.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Fletcher wondered how to approach his next session with Agent Hotchner.

He didn't want to frighten the man or turn him defensive by telling him his mind might have been tampered with more deeply than suspected. On the other hand, when dealing with MIS, once the incident that inflicted moral injury was identified, the second challenge to treating a patient was to win his trust and reassure him that he wouldn't be judged and was deserving of forgiveness.

 _Kind of hard to do when you're hinting that the guy's not in his right mind._

 _But this isn't as straightforward as all that. This might also be a matter of creative recall. Things are getting warped, but it might be more than just that one episode with Foyet. If something's altering Aaron's perceptions…making him eager to talk to me, rather than hostile…making him see himself as a murderer, rather than a rescuer…I need a way to test him. I need to know if Aaron's the source, or if someone or something else is the facilitator between his mind and reality._

By the time the doctor reached his office, he had an idea.

It was difficult to wait for a decent hour before setting things in motion. At 9 a.m. he let his first patient of the day wait while he made the call.

"Hello, Mr. Rossi? It's Dr. Fletcher. I wonder if I could enlist your aid with something I'd like to try on Aaron…"

In rapid succession, the psychiatrist was surprised, pleased, and then alarmed when Rossi said he could have Hotch there any time.

The sooner, the better.


	37. Confession

Jack wasn't surprised at all when Aunt Jessie was waiting to pick him up after school.

He slid into the passenger seat, shedding his backpack with practiced ease, and gave her a tepid half-smile. "Hi. Is Dad seeing his doctor again?"

Jessica gave her nephew a sidelong look. "What makes you say that?"

A diffident shrug. "I dunno."

Unfortunately, Ms. Brooks didn't have Rossi's savvy when it came to probing beneath the surface of Hotchner 'I dunno's. She flexed her brows in a dismissive expression and started the car. "All I know is Mr. Rossi called this morning and said he wanted some alone-time with your dad." She forced a grin. "Probably just a boy's night out kind of thing."

But both she and Jack knew it wasn't.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm not sure what my part is in all this."

Dave had spent the day with an uneasy Aaron, waiting for the psychiatrist to free up some time to see them. As intrigued as Fletcher was, he couldn't shunt his other patients to the back of the line day after day. And 'day after day' was becoming the norm for his sessions with Agent Hotchner.

So…late afternoon again, and the two agents had arrived for what Fletcher was prepared to consider an open-ended meeting.

"I'm not sure either, Mr. Rossi. But I have a hunch and I want to play it out. Just…stay. That's all I ask."

"Couldn't keep me away, Doc. And it's 'Dave.' Remember?" Rossi kept a proprietary hand on Hotch's shoulder. "Just not sure what you want me to do."

The doctor ducked his head, a faint grin making a brief appearance as he recalled when they'd first met, asking the older agent if he could be on a first name basis, because he wanted to see if Rossi would be as testy about familiarity as Hotch had been. "I remember.. Dave." Fletcher reached into his briefcase, extracting a sheaf of papers, hard copy printed out in preparation for this session. He motioned Hotch toward the couch and nodded Rossi toward a nearby chair. "Now, let's see what the two of _you_ remember."

Rossi looked quizzical; Hotch, wary.

"Wha'd'you mean?" Dave had clued Fletcher in over the phone about the skewed take his Unit Chief had developed when recalling cases. He wasn't sure, however, what _he_ could contribute. He craned his neck to see what the papers contained as the doctor took his own seat near the head of the couch where Aaron perched, a portrait in caution.

"I have here…" The psychiatrist brandished a rustling handful. "…cases that you, Aaron, have worked on. Some of these are the reports you yourself wrote up and filed. Some were submitted by your teammates at the time." He nodded at Rossi. "All I want you to do, Dave, is listen. As for you…" He turned his full attention back to Hotch. "…I want you to tell me what you recall of each."

Fletcher gave the Unit Chief a significant look, one brow rising. "Lie down. Let's begin."

Seeing his teammate's anxiety, Rossi gave him a casual shrug. "C'mon, Aaron. Assume the position."

With slow reluctance, eyes tracking from doctor to friend and back again, Hotch did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Tell me about…" Dr. Fletcher glanced at one of the papers he held, referencing one of the cases in which both Hotch and Rossi had participated. "…Floyd Hansen."

Aaron let himself relax into the couch cushions as he mind wandered over a career's worth of victims and unsubs. "Floyd Hansen…Hansen… Oh…yeah…him." A note of chagrin entered the Unit Chief's tone. His chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. "He was a sexual sadist. A motel owner. Lured couples in and tortured them…killed them. Disposed of the bodies by trying to make it look as though they'd died in traffic accidents." Another bottomless sigh. "I spoke to him and didn't catch on. Let him slip right past me."

Rossi leaned forward, about to speak, but the psychiatrist held a hand up, palm toward the agent. Dave obeyed the time-honored gesture to stop, biting back his words.

"But you caught him in the end, right?"

"Yeah."

"And did your failure to identify Mr. Hansen during your first contact with him result in additional casualties?"

"Well…no, but…"

"So you didn't cost anyone his or her life?"

Hotch shrugged, opting not to vocalize agreement, since he still felt he could have done a better job and spared the couple Hansen had stashed away in his motel some pain and terror. Fletcher turned to Rossi.

"Dave, does that about sum up your take on that case?"

The older agent nodded. "Pretty much. It was early on after I'd come out of retirement. Aaron was still burning off the baby fat as a Unit Chief, ya know? I told him to join the club. We all make mistakes. The only way to avoid that is to take no action at all. And _then_ where would the victims be?"

"Aaron? Does that jive with your memories?"

"Yeah." Hotch half-turned his head toward where Rossi sat just outside his easy field of vision. "But I still say I should have picked up on _something_. What kind of profiler carries on a discussion with an unsub that twisted and doesn't?"

"One who's learning. _That's_ what kind."

"Gentlemen." Fletcher interrupted what sounded like a timeworn, but congenial point of contention between the agents. "Let's continue." He rustled the papers again, eyes tracking. "Talk to me about…Evan Abby."

Hotch's sharp, indrawn breath was followed by silence. Rossi frowned, shaking his head, but again was discouraged from speaking by a quick, warning glance from the psychiatrist.

"Evan Abby." He repeated with slow, distinct pronunciation. "What happened with Evan Abby, Aaron?" Fletcher consulted the page before him. "He was an environmental activist involved with leaking underground storage tanks…LUST…?"

An audible swallow. "He…he…Abby was a good man. If I hadn't shown up, if I hadn't pushed him, he wouldn't have died…at least not like that…"

"Hotch…" Rossi leaned forward, the impulse to comfort overriding Fletcher's gesture to keep still.

"You weren't there, Dave! You don't know…"

It had been a case of a murderous arsonist, before Rossi's return. The memories were burned into Aaron with searing heat. He'd sat by a victim's bedside and eased her passing with lies, saying her son and husband were fine when they were nothing more than charred remnants. He'd targeted Evan Abby as key to learning the unsub's identity. Along the way, Hotch had felt his own scars surface…then reveal themselves as unhealed wounds even after so many years had elapsed since their acquisition.

"Abby…Abby was dying of cancer…lung cancer. Like my…my father." Hotch took a deep, shuddering breath. "He had a son he loved. They needed each other. If I hadn't pushed, they would have had more time together, and that's…that's…" His voice cracked, breaking with emotion.

Fletcher held his palm up toward Rossi again, not needing to even look at the man to know he was yearning to interrupt.

Dave subsided, but was clearly itching to address his teammate's take on the case. Even if he hadn't been present, Rossi knew Aaron didn't have it in him to be as negative a force as he seemed to think.

The doctor checked his notes. "Looks to me as though you did everything in your power to _save_ Mr. Abby, Aaron."

"No…"

"Your teammates wrote up that they had to forcibly restrain you; you were _that_ determined to risk yourself in the name of rescuing a man who was already beyond help."

"No…NO, you don't get it!"

"And the EMS on the scene said that of the FBI agents present, you were the one he knew would throw caution to the winds in the name of saving someone past hope."

"No!" Hotch twisted on the couch, fixing Fletcher with brimming eyes. "I was the reason Abby went after the unsub himself! I was the one who identified him…"

The doctor's voice was a river of calm flowing through a treacherous landscape pocked with pain. "It says here that Abby was the one who identified the arsonist. Not you. You showed him photos, but that's all. Seems to me that Abby made the choice to take him out. He could just as easily have let your team close in on him and…"

"No!" Hotch's strident voice overrode Fletcher. "I deprived a kid of his father…of a father who loved his son, who was still a part of his son's life in a good…in a good w-way…"

Rossi couldn't take it anymore.

"Dammit, Aaron! You're doing it again! You always take responsibility for things that are waaaaay beyond your control! This is Foyet all over again. That busload of victims he shot, and you were so ready to say it was all your fault…"

 _All your fault…_ The phrase echoed in Hotch's mind; the words uttered when the Reaper felt himself on the verge of victory, his knife ready to slice its way into Aaron's heart, but his words got there first…his threat aimed toward the one reason Hotch had to keep fighting: his son; the judgment he would pass on to his son. The last words Jack would hear... _All your father's fault…_

Aaron had flipped back around, lying flat. Fletcher suspected it was the man's way of dropping a shield between himself and those who would condemn him, if they only saw him for what he really was. _What he is in his own mind. What someone made him. No one with that much damage would have passed the entry evals into the FBI. Someone did this to you, Aaron. Let's just see if I'm right about how…_

There were a multitude of pieces coming together in the psychiatrist's thoughts. Some he had suspected, but more were appearing that he hadn't. Just as the BAU would sometimes need another victim to blaze the trail to their unsub, so Fletcher needed more of the puzzle that was beginning to emerge.

Rossi was still on the offensive. "Aaron, what did I tell you back in that alley in Boston? Remember? I said…"

"Agents, _please_!" Fletcher hadn't known he'd be cast in the role of referee. _Probably should have, though. Dave is very protective of this young man. Might be overcompensating since I pointed out he's wandered off on a path peopled by his own kin, rather than Aaron. Well…one issue at a time…_

"Mr. Rossi, please be a silent witness for now. You'll get your chance to talk, but right now, I want Aaron's recollections front and center." The sternness in his tone softened. "Believe me…there _is_ a method to my madness, but you have to let me do this my way. _Capice_?"

Use of the Italian word jarred Dave enough for him to settle down, still fuming at Hotch's bull-headed insistence on shouldering the woes of the world. _Like his own share of them isn't enough already?!_

Fletcher cast a warning look toward the older agent. "I promise you'll have your say, Dave. But for now…" He brandished the sheaf of case printouts. "…for now we have a lot of ground to cover."

Rossi nodded.

Hotch made a conscious effort to stop kneading his own knuckles, privately glad that the others couldn't look him in the eye. _Something's wrong, but…that_ _ **is**_ _the way it all went down. It_ _ **is**_ _…_

"Here…" The doctor snagged a small steno-pad and a pen from his desk, depositing them in Dave's hands. "Take notes, but please stay quiet." He settled back into his chair and rifled through the pages, looking for something that might help bolster the theory forming in his mind.

"Aaron, talk to me about…Darrin Call."

Lying on the couch, Hotch's breath caught.

 _If he's asking about Darrin Call, then he knows. He knows what I did, and Rossi was there. He knows, too. There's no point in even trying to hide…_

Turning his head toward the wall, making himself as invisible as he could under the circumstances, Aaron began to talk in a shredded voice.

No…Aaron began to _confess_ …


	38. Case by Case

Rossi gritted his teeth as Hotch began to speak in a low, tattered voice about his encounter with Darrin Call.

"I screwed up everything on that case." The Unit Chief closed his eyes, savoring the pain of a time when he recalled being particularly ashamed of himself.

"Explain, please?" Fletcher's tone played counterpoint to Aaron's: steady, sure, emotionless, polite.

"I mean _really_ screwed up. Didn't realize how badly until…until you explained about moral injury."

Rossi's frown was puzzled, but, mindful of the psychiatrist's request, he kept still. Hotch took a deep breath, finding ragged comfort in being able to deliver his words to a wall rather than looking into the eyes of two men and seeing condemnation grow as they understood what sort of man the BAU Unit Chief _really_ was. He couldn't imagine anyone, even Dave, who was loyal to a fault, excusing his behavior.

The doctor's soft, professional voice coaxed Aaron forward. "How does your moral injury enter the picture?"

"Not mine. Darrin's. He had it. He _had_ to after being a lure and a witness to the kidnappings and deaths of so many boys. Lucky that he didn't remember, but…but once he did…" Hotch's body seemed to cringe in on itself. "…but there was someone else who _did_ remember all along…all of his life…and I beat him over the head with it. God, I was a bully; a cold-hearted, cruel bully. His name was…was Tommy Anderson."

Rossi's eyes flew wide. He couldn't completely repress himself; a small, disbelieving noise escaped him. Then, lips pressed tight, he bent over and began scribbling furiously in his pad.

Fletcher felt the frenetic, angry activity of the older agent sitting beside him. He used it as a barometer. It told him Aaron's recall merited a _lot_ of criticism. He glanced at the reports in his hands, wondering just how far off course his patient was going. He had to keep in mind that there was a chance the official reports had been skewed. His research into Hotch had told him the man _did_ cover up on occasion when it benefitted a teammate, or a victim. He maintained his even tone. "Tell me about Tommy Anderson, Aaron."

Once he'd made the commitment to bare his soul, Hotch soldiered forward.

"Tommy was one of the boys who'd been abducted; the only one to escape. And I beat him up about it. All the signs of moral injury were right in front of me: the guy lived alone…there was every sign of his being an alcoholic, of trying to numb himself. And I…I shouted at him, berated him…" Aaron's voice broke. "… _blamed_ him! Asked him if he'd abandoned Darrin because…because he cried too much, or…or was too small to keep up…or…" Hotch's throat closed, his chest tightening with emotion too powerful to let speech continue.

The only sound was Rossi's pen scratching at speed as it scrolled out his own thoughts on the case. Fletcher let a few beats go by out of respect for his patient's pain. He used the time to refresh his own recall of the various reports he held. When Aaron's muscles relaxed enough to let him draw a ragged breath, the doctor gave him a gentle, verbal nudge.

"So you aggravated this Tommy Anderson's moral injury?"

"And I didn't have to." …A low growl from Rossi that everyone chose to ignore… "I could have explained to him that Darrin Call was alive and needed help. It would have given him a chance to make up some of the debt he probably felt for abandoning him as a child. Instead, I chose to torture Tommy. God only knows how that's affected him since…"

"Why do you think you handled things that way?"

The quiet was absolute. Even Dave had stopped writing, pen wavering as he waited to hear what warped logic had been planted in the Unit Chief's mind.

A full minute passed during which Hotch struggled against his instinct to hide and bury things, the more loathsome, the deeper.

"I don't know."

Fletcher didn't need to say anything. By now his patient knew better than to offer that response.

"Maybe I saw myself in Tommy. Maybe I was angry, because I wanted to believe that someone who's been through hell can come back. And he didn't."

"So you identified with Tommy?"

"I guess."

"How?"

Aaron shifted his weight, trying to ease a discomfort that wasn't physical, but demanded expression nonetheless. "No wife. No significant other. He drinks; I guess my drug of choice is my job. Alcoholic…Workaholic. The impulse behind both is the same; cover up what you've done instead of making it right. And he had a chance to make it right…" Hotch's voice had a brief quaver. "…and I took it away from him."

Rossi resumed taking notes, brows drawing ever more inward.

Fletcher had been double-checking his hard copy. "How did that case end, Aaron?"

A breath so deeply anguished, the doctor knew he'd need to intervene soon, then... "I helped Darrin Call kill his father."

The sound of Dave slamming his pen against his pad was sharp punctuation; a nonverbal exclamation point the older agent was using to express his opinion of Hotch's memories. The psychiatrist decided it was time to defuse both agents.

"Okay, gentlemen. Let's take a break." Fletcher watched his patient cross one forearm over his eyes. The posture dripped with anxiety, guilt and shame. "Aaron, we agreed before we began going through things on a case by case basis, that there's a possibility your recollections have been tampered with, correct?"

The Unit Chief emitted a muffled groan. Rossi grumbled, "Tampered with? More like _nuked_."

"Be that as it may, I'd like to move ahead." _I need a couple more dots before I venture my best guess about all this.._ "Aaron, is there a case _you'd_ like to talk about?"

The question was unexpected. It felt more like reflex than thought that made Hotch murmur, "Shelley Chamberlain…" He brought his arm away from his eyes, looking perplexed.

Fletcher glanced at Dave, who shrugged. He had no idea why Hotch was bringing up the name of a woman who'd celebrated the birth- and death-day of her young son by going on a shooting rampage that ended in the deceased boy's favorite restaurant. He _did_ recall, however, his leader's role in the final outcome. He'd been proud of how Aaron had talked the woman down. The Unit Chief's open mic had let those waiting safely outside hear every word.

The psychiatrist leaned forward once more.

"Okay, Aaron…tell me about Shelley Chamberlain."

Eyes closed, Hotch began to give up another piece of his soul.

At least, that's how it felt.

He didn't hear Rossi's furious whisper… "That's _not_ what happened!"


	39. Sons

It felt like an alternate reality.

Rossi had the odd sensation of existing on two disparate levels juxtaposed against each other, hearing Hotch's words like an off-kilter echo of his own recollections. At one point he turned his head to stare at Fletcher's profile, willing the man to have some kind of professional perception that could discern the damage in Aaron that was so obvious to Dave.

 _But the doc wasn't there when these things happened. He only has paper reports against which to compare Aaron's viewpoint. He wasn't there, so how can this help? It's like a case of he-said, she-said._

Feeling utterly helpless, the senior agent stopped taking notes, choosing instead to sit in silence and let Hotch's words wash over him. _How do you refute the un-provable? How do you find the root of such exquisitely selective damage?_

Dave had no doubt that someone had punched holes in Aaron's mind with the accuracy of a sniper. It didn't matter what the details were anymore. It only mattered that he convince the psychiatrist sitting beside him that someone had indeed targeted the Unit Chief and then executed mental shot after shot with deadly precision.

Rossi had no reason to doubt his suspected culprit. _If I ever get my hands around your throat, Peter Lewis, it won't matter how freakishly smart you are. I'll squeeze until your brains go dry._

The sad part was that even such extreme vengeance wouldn't heal whatever had punched and bruised its way through Hotch's psyche.

XXXXXXXXX

Dr. Fletcher made a mental note of Dave's lapse. The man wasn't writing. That could either mean that what Aaron recounted jived with the older agent's memories, or things had gone past the point where Rossi considered argument and contradiction viable countermeasures. Since his patient's facts were debatable, Fletcher concentrated on the tone the man used to communicate them.

It was several shades darker than dismal.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Shelley Chamberlain…" Hotch crossed his forearm over his eyes once more, shielding himself from the outside world where so many opportunities existed for him to bully and damage others.

"I rubbed salt in the worst wound a parent can suffer. I went in there and told her what a great kid she'd had…what a great kid she'd killed…"

Rossi's hissed outcry didn't penetrate Aaron's awareness at all.

"By the time I was done, both parents were sobbing. Sure, she gave up the gun she had, but it was her ex-husband who got it away from her, not me. And I didn't _have_ to go at her…at both of them…the way I did." He inhaled a deep breath which did nothing to loosen the ache in his chest.

"I'm a father. I should have known better. All I did was bully and twist a knife that was already embedded so, so deep in that mother's heart…" Hotch gave a derisive snort. "Yeah…Good job, Agent Hotchner. _Real_ good job…"

Fletcher waited to be sure his patient had no more to say, glancing at the papers that told of a grieving woman turned serial shooter. He was beginning to see a pattern. He was also beginning to feel the pressure of Rossi's disagreement like coiled steel beside him. Maybe now would be an opportune moment for release. "Dave, you have something to say?"

Such a mild query. Such an explosive response.

"Damn straight I do!" The older agent leaned, aiming himself and everything he had at Hotch. "Aaron, you have to listen to me. What you remember is so twisted up and tarnished, it's like…like someone set off a dirty bomb in your brain! There's shrapnel embedded in every recollection! It's just not true.

"Take Tommy Anderson. Prentiss was there, Aaron. She told me all about it. You guys were fighting against time and a boy's life was on the line. Darrin Call had taken him and we had no idea what he'd do, how far he'd go. You and Emily fell into a good cop, bad cop routine without even needing to discuss it. You cut to the chase in the name of saving a child's life! You didn't damage Tommy Anderson. Someone else did, and he'd been living in that damage nearly all his life, had already made it his whole world.

"As for Darrin Call's father…" Rossi threw his hands up; a thoroughly Italian gesture of exasperation. "I'm pretty damn sure that die was cast when Call entered that house. You weren't the one in charge of what he did in there. As for what _you_ did…you saved a boy's life _and_ you prevented that boy from having to witness Call shooting an old man. You prevented that kid from acquiring the kind of scars that were inflicted on Tommy and Darrin.

"And may I remind you, Aaron, there are those who think you went into that house unarmed and solo, to die, not to kill."

Fletcher's brows rose. He turned toward the older agent, prepared to put a stop to what might be more than his patient could absorb, but it was like trying to halt a tsunami by using sign language. No way would this flow stop or even slow. Not yet.

"As for Evan Abby…" Rossi felt his nostrils flare with indignation. "I shepherded you into the BAU, my boy. You think I would have missed character flaws that big? You think Gideon and I didn't go over your background with a fine-tooth comb, Aaron? We chose you and pushed you and promoted you because you'd grown up hurt, but you used the pain to develop this extraordinary empathy. You were smart and gentle and perceptive. It was like finding a pearl among the slimy guts of a shellfish…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch's arm moved; his eyes flew open. _Pearl. Fletcher had said something about pearls; about how they form and progressively layer over the irritation that was their reason for existing in the first place._ His eyes closed again in abject pain, in mourning for what was gone, for what he might have been once, but wasn't now.

 _What Rossi and Gideon saw doesn't exist anymore. It's been covered over. Buried. Gone._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dave and Fletcher both noticed Aaron's flinch; his forearm moving;, his eyes flashing open, then shut.

Rossi wanted to see it as Hotch recognizing the truth of what he was hearing. The doctor saw a reaction that merited exploration. He wasn't sure what it meant, so he let Dave's diatribe continue.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi sucked in a long, thin breath. His lungs needed the fuel for what came next.

"And when it comes to Shelley Chamberlain…" He inhaled again. "…I have seldom been more proud of you, Aaron. You walked in to confront a serial killer and found the commonality that essentially restored her humanity! You touched her pain, because _you_ know pain, too.

"You reawakened parental love. You let her see that her wounds weren't ignored. The people who came to save her son failed, and walked away with wounds of their own. You showed her that no one loses alone. No one fails alone. Her pain and loss touched others…wounded others."

Rossi's breath labored.

"You brought her back from the darkest place a parent can go. How can you not know that?"

Hotch moaned his reply. "I…don't …know…"

"I do." A soft interjection from the doctor.

Dave froze, fixing eyes on Fletcher. Aaron half-turned on the couch, his semi-stunned regard settling on the psychiatrist as well.

The doctor looked from one to the other, ending on Hotch.

"Aaron, the common thread here is parental. Specifically, parent to son. So…I need to ask you…" He watched an ashen pallor infuse his patient's complexion. _He already knows what's coming…_ "…what kind of son were _you_?"

XXXXXXXXXXX

The greatest distance between two points isn't measured in meters or miles, but in time.

For Aaron Hotchner, the boundaries collapsed, and there was no distance at all between being a BAU Unit Chief and being the son of a brilliant, bullying attorney whose violence was part and parcel of his heritage.

He could feel Fletcher's and Rossi's eyes on him.

His own welled with tears as fresh as yesterday.


	40. Looking Back

Aaron's harsh inhale was the only sound in the room.

He crossed his arm over his eyes again. In part to cover his distress; in part to use his shirt sleeve to absorb the welling tears over which he had no control. _What kind of son was_ _ **I**_ _?_

"I don't wanna talk about it."

He sounded young. And distant.

Rossi and Fletcher exchanged glances; the older agent perfectly willing to cede the floor to the doctor. Dave's mind was still aflame with indignation over his teammate's warped recall. He'd listened to Hotch reduce admirable accomplishments to shameful shortcomings. Nonetheless, Rossi thought he might have said enough. The way Aaron looked, any kind of argument, even one as well-meaning and affection-fueled as Dave's, might feel like abuse; like slapping a particularly vulnerable puppy.

To signal his withdrawal from further confrontation, Rossi leaned all the way back in his chair; pad and pen resting on his knees.

Fletcher renewed his focus on his patient. "It's alright, Aaron. You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to, but…maybe you could at least tell me why?"

When minutes passed and it was clear Hotch wasn't planning on any explanations, the doctor tried again. "What kind of son would you have _liked_ to have been?"

It was easier, coming at the issue from an oblique angle. Aaron could achieve a degree of separation; he could tell himself he was talking, not about himself, but about a fictional son…the kind who would have earned love and respect. Still, it took a few minutes for him to mentally form the loophole Fletcher had provided before he could reply.

When he was ready, Hotch lowered his arm, but kept his eyes closed, imagining a younger version of himself. The image felt strange as it formed. It felt as though someone else was whispering the answers in his ear, giving him what he knew the doctor would approve. After all, it was the sort of son _every_ man would want, wasn't it? The sort Aaron had failed to be.

"A son should be respectful, and honest, and smart. Someone a father could be proud of."

Beside the doctor, Rossi bent his head in abject sorrow for his friend, pressing his lips into a firm line to keep from shouting out _'But that's exactly who you are!'_ He cast a mournful, sidelong look toward Fletcher, wondering if he believed, as Dave did, that Hotch's essential core had been, and always would be, one forged from a rare and gentle nobility. But the psychiatrist didn't react; he was intent on his patient's words.

"I wish I could have done something… _any_ thing…right. But I never could." Aaron had passed through the loophole. Thinking about a make-believe son had eased him over the threshold and, once he'd entered the arena, he could edge past his deepest emotional scars and share a little of the child he remembered.

But something felt…off. It was like looking in a mirror rather than reliving a memory. There was something flat and isolated about the reflection. Hotch didn't fight it; the oddity actually made it more comfortable for him to speak. It was like inspecting an illustration. In his mind's eye, what he saw was clearer, more concise than the images hovering in the background of true memory. He didn't often revisit his childhood anyway. He decided not to question this strange, new wrinkle in it.

"I should have been smarter, pulled down better grades…"

Another glance passed between Fletcher and Rossi. Both knew the Unit Chief's background; the doctor from poring over every scrap of information on file; Dave from having vetted an eager, young man for entry into the Bureau's elite BAU. Hotch had been a stellar student with grades and accomplishments worthy of Harvard.

"I wasn't athletic. Kinda clumsy…awkward…always falling down…bruising…"

The FBI conducted grueling entrance exams before an aspiring recruit was allowed through their steel-enforced doors. Again, both older men knew that someone who exhibited Aaron's level of grace, speed, and skill as an agent couldn't have conjured those physical attributes out of thin air. The mention of bruising made Rossi's jaw muscles clench. Fletcher merely acknowledged the existence of bruised flesh in an abused child's upbringing. Just part of the picture. And not so strange that such a child would accept responsibility for his own injuries.

Hotch drew a shuddering breath. "A son should be someone his father can be proud of. Someone who grows up to be a credit to his family. Someone…good. Someone…better."

Another deep sigh and the Unit Chief brought his arm up, shielding his eyes once again.

The doctor waited, but it seemed his patient had no more to offer.

"Aaron, what do you see when you remember yourself like this? Where are you?"

Fletcher's tone was low, almost mesmerizing. Rossi found himself taking shallow breaths, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. _Don't break the spell…_

"Home, I guess."

"Can you describe it?"

The pause was long. Just as the psychiatrist began to wonder if his patient had fallen asleep, Hotch dropped his arm back to his side. Eyes still closed, he frowned. Deep. Then deeper. He twisted around and gave Fletcher a puzzled look that made a quick transition to alarmed. "I don't see anything. It's just me standing somewhere."

"Describe it."

Hotch licked parched lips. "B-blank. White. Like…I don't know. I can't see anything…I don't know." Pupils dilating, his eyes tracked from Fletcher to Rossi and back. "That's not right, is it? Not…normal?"

The doctor's tone remained calm despite the rising note of panic in his patient's. "There is no right or wrong, Aaron. You're doing very well. I think we're getting close to something important. So, breathe and try to focus. Can you describe yourself back then? As a boy? Maybe work your way outward from there?"

Hotch made a gulping sound that Dave found disturbing. He could see the small artery in his friend's neck begin to throb.

"I'm just standing there! I'm…I'm…" A note of approaching hysteria made the doctor interrupt.

"It's alright, Aaron! It's alright. Breathe past this. Give yourself a minute." While Hotch tried to comply, Fletcher bent toward Rossi, speaking low for the older man's ears only. "I think some kind of mental block has been set up. I think we're about to see the footprint of whoever did this to him."

Dave gave a single nod. He already knew who'd been walking rough-shod through Aaron's mind. He did a little conscious breathing himself to tamp down the murderous impulse whenever thoughts of Peter Lewis surfaced. Fletcher concentrated on calming his patient.

"Start small and we'll build from there."

The adrenaline coursing through Hotch, fueling his panic, wouldn't let him lie down anymore. He swung his legs around, sitting on the couch's edge, bending from the waist as though he were fending off a faint. The doctor waited, peripherally aware of Rossi and ready to intervene if the older agent tried to go to his friend's aid. _He's not in danger. He's fighting. Hard to watch, but part of the process. Just wish I could be sure where it's leading._

In a few minutes, Hotch's posture was less tense; his respiration less ragged. Fletcher tried again.

"Aaron, stay with this. Stay with it while it's fresh in your mind, okay?" The Unit Chief nodded, eyes closed, arms braced, hands gripping the couch cushioning on either side of him.

"Good." The psychiatrist leaned in, his world telescoping down to the art of drawing phantoms out of a troubled psyche. _Like removing a thorn from a lion's paw…be careful…it's hurting him, but even if you're helping, it could make him lash out…be careful…_ "You couldn't see where you were, but you could see yourself. You could see a boy…Describe him, Aaron." Fletcher gave what he thought would be a beneficial nudge, and a sure bet considering the physical appearance of his patient… "He's got dark, almost black hair, this boy…What else?"

Hotch's head tilted to one side, puzzled. His frown returned. "No. No, he doesn't. He's got brown hair, but…"

The image coalesced, drawing together like shreds of mist that had decided to form themselves into a rock-hard, solid statue.

Hotch's breath caught. He gagged.

"Aaron? Aaron!?"

"Aaron!"

The face looking back at him, standing sentinel in front of his childhood, bridging the gap from past to present…smirked.

When it raised one finger and tapped its temple, eyes glittering with joyous evil, Hotch's guttural cry tore through the professional quiet of the doctor's office.

Peter Lewis's image shredded, disappearing to the reedy sound of giggling as Aaron blacked out.


	41. With a Lewis-Like Lilt

Hotch swam upward toward the voices.

"You sure we shouldn't call 911? My patients don't usually pass out on me, Dave."

"No. He hates hospitals…Spent too much time in them already. I think maybe…wait…He's coming around."

Tactile sensation was next. There was a hand over his neck, fingers resting against the carotid artery. Another hand pressing on his chest, verifying the origin of the pulse being monitored in his neck. Someone brushed a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. His hair. Dark, nearly black hair…

 _It had brown hair…looking back at me…It…_

Hotch's eyes flew open, lungs and heart sprinting as the split second before he'd fainted charged back to the fore. Core muscles contracted in an instinctive move to protect himself. Futile. The hands pushed him down. The voices turned soothing, but firm.

"Whoa. Aaron, lie still. Lie still. C'mon…calm down." Fletcher knelt at his patient's head, pressing both of the man's shoulders against the carpeted floor. "You're safe here. Just calm down."

Rossi was also on his knees by Hotch's side; one hand trying to massage the tension out of those core muscles that had leapt into action, the other lingering on the chest where the heart's rhythm was reassuring despite its pace. "Shhhhh…I'm here…I got you…It's okay…Shhhhh…"

The Unit Chief made a small, strangled noise, then took a few gulping gasps before he lapsed into limp, compliant confusion, eyes tracking between the two older men hemming him in.

Dave captured Hotch's focus first. "Doc here thinks you might need a visit to the ER. Sound good to you?"

Aaron shook his head, still breathing hard and blinking like some nocturnal creature pulled into sudden sunlight.

Fletcher released the man's shoulders, rocking back on his heels from where he'd been crouching over his patient. "Well then maybe you can tell us what happened? It would sure make _me_ feel better."

"Give him a minute." Rossi had felt the jump in Hotch's heart at the doctor's request.

"Sure. Sure…"

A brief quiet descended, broken only by the Unit Chief's effort to steady his breathing. At last he pushed against Dave's grip, showing he was capable of controlled movement rather than the lurching reflexes born of terror. He sat up slowly, resting one arm against the knee of a bent leg, bracing the other arm with hand on floor. Head lowered, Hotch closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."

"Yes, you do." Fletcher's soft words brought a wry, humorless grimace to Aaron's lips. He'd known that he wouldn't be able to sweep this episode under the carpet.

"Let's get him up off the floor before we go any further." Rossi took an arm, easing Hotch to his feet and then back down to sit on the couch's edge. "Need anything? Water…?" He glanced at the psychiatrist, sending a message that was intercepted on cue.

Fletcher didn't bother asking. He went to his office bar, knowing Dave recalled partaking of his alcoholic hospitality earlier. In short order, all three men were cradling tumblers of whiskey between their hands. Hotch tried to deny the tremble in his, and the others were kind enough not to mention it.

A few sips later, the doctor broached the subject.

"Aaron, can you talk about it? About what happened?"

Hotch took a rather large sip of his drink. More like a desperate, therapeutic gulp. He winced as the liquid burned its way down, but managed to nod. The liquor gave his voice a temporary, scratchy quality. "It…it was…was _him_. I saw…saw _him_."

Fletcher was used to keeping himself in check. He preferred to let his patients fill in the blanks and translate their thoughts into complete sentences even if he already had a good notion of what they were. His professional stance was that his refraining from speaking up was giving the damaged psyche in his care a semblance of control, of empowerment. If he jumped in with his own two bits, it might deprive the patient of an opportunity to make a tiny bit of progress.

Rossi had no such qualms.

"Was it Lewis? It _was_ Lewis, wasn't it?" The words were rough with anger.

"Dave! Please, I'd rather hear it from Aaron."

Grumbling, the older agent subsided, tasting his own drink and glowering over the rim of the glass at the room in general and the concept of Peter Lewis in particular.

Fletcher backtracked. "Can you break it down, Aaron? You were looking at yourself as a boy, and…?"

"And…" The Unit Chief cleared his throat, trying to sound less creaky. "…and I saw _him_."

"Lewis!" Rossi snarled the name.

"Dave! Now c'mon. Let him get it out himself."

Hotch took a shaky breath. "Yeah…Lewis."

Whereas Rossi had spat the name, backing it with a fine mixture of rage and hate, Hotch's tone carried something weaker: loathing, certainly, but fear, disbelief and most disturbing of all…

…defeat.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Hieronymus Mason hated two things.

There were a host of others he railed against and disliked strongly, but there were two that topped his list of all-time, gold-plated abhorrence: his first name and incompetent dawdling. One he was stuck with; unable to change it because of family tradition that had been drummed into him from the day he was born. But the other was something he had spent a good portion of his career working against.

It was a respectable career, too, bordering on stellar. All it needed to attain the next level was a really good case study.

Which is why Hieronymus Mason was sitting at his desk afterhours, gnawing on his impatience.

He wouldn't have thought William Fletcher would fall into the Incompetent Dawdler category, but he was beginning to wonder. The man had announced his discovery of a prime candidate for exploration of and publication about moral injury, but had subsequently fallen silent. Hieronymus would have been more sympathetic if he hadn't also found out that the younger doctor had been remiss in recording his sessions with the study subject. Since that little faux pas had come to light, Dr. Mason was finding the seed of doubt it had sewn…growing.

He pulled out his phone and squinted at it, debating.

He knew his wasn't the face the medical profession would choose to front an emerging condition. The big money was in pharmaceuticals that would spring up to treat the malady du jour, and drug companies were more apt to pay attention when the face of the driving force behind it was comely.

Hieronymus knew that he had detractors. The kindlier ones termed him 'ill-favored.' The less so called him 'a vile, little man.' But both camps called him 'genius,' 'brilliant,' 'gifted.' Still…

He toyed with the phone, flipping it open, then closed. It wasn't beyond possibility that Fletcher, after his initial enthusiasm to share his new find, had realized the gains to be reaped from it. He might have decided to go it alone…to publish alone…to present and lecture alone…

 _But I'm the one who started the ball rolling! I'm the one who should be front and center!_

Mason was under no illusion that, if the younger doctor went solo and were to be contested, the powers that be would opt to support the prettier face. _And the more promotable name_.

Hieronymus knew he was operating in a vacuum, stewing over a possibility rather than a fact. That was unscientific. And if there's one thing he was, handsome or not, it was credibly, reliably, thoroughly scientific.

He flipped the phone open again and punched in Fletcher's number, holding his breath with anticipation…and letting it burst forth in an aggravated puff when he was siphoned off into voicemail.

Hieronymus Mason pocketed his phone and went back to mentally gnawing on his least favorite things, adding people who don't pick up calls to the list.

In his estimation, that moved Dr. Fletcher past the Incompetent Dawdler category and had him flirting with Backstabbing Credit Grabber. Mason hoped he was wrong, but when it came to people in general and colleagues in particular…he rarely was.

He would need to insert himself into Fletcher's sessions with the FBI agent.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Fletcher felt his phone vibrate, but ignored it.

A patient in crisis took precedence, and the way Aaron had downed the rest of his drink was a good indication of inner turmoil. _And let's not forget the whole fainting episode…_

The doctor was experiencing some turmoil of his own. He'd pegged the patient for a double psychiatric whammy: PTSD and MIS.

 _So what fresh hell is_ _ **this**_ _?!_

"Aaron, you _saw_ Peter Lewis?"

"Yeah." Small voice. Reluctant. A longing look cast toward the office door and escape. When Rossi frowned, the longing look swiveled to the liquor cabinet instead. But Fletcher wanted his patient's perceptions while they were fresh, un-blunted. He'd already had one drink.

"Can you give me details? I want to know the whole experience, Aaron. So…please?"

Resigned to his fate, Hotch took a deep breath, expelling it in a long, slow, even stream. "I didn't see it at first. I thought it was me. But it wasn't. You told me to…to envision myself. It came into focus hard and fast. And it wasn't me. It was _him_."

The Unit Chief's discomfort was palpable. Fletcher made a professional evaluation and decided to push just a little more. "Was there anything else? Anything…even a vague impression?"

Aaron's breathing began to roughen again. He nodded. He knew he should say something, but he was a deliberate man who planned his moves and rarely gave in to spontaneity. He hated how it felt as though Lewis were pushing him, forming words that he himself was hearing for the first time even as he spoke them. A child's sing-song cadence…

"I know something you don't know…I know something you don't know…" Hotch could hear the voice that had whispered in his ear once before. "He…he said that he…he loved his father, and his father loved him. And I'll never know what that's like…I know something you don't know…I know something you don't know…"

Listening to a voice with an evil lilt so unlike Aaron, a chill blew the small hairs on the back of Rossi's neck upright.


	42. Linking Boy to Man

"You know… I came here to talk about my _son_."

Hotch's statement, spoken into the utter quiet following his delivery of Lewis's taunt, complete with eerie imitation of Lewis's intonation, sounded accusatory.

Fletcher squinted, considering. "I think you came to talk about _**a**_ son, but not necessarily yours."

Rossi had been staring at his teammate, eyes scanning for any clue that might thaw the frozen feeling in the pit of his stomach. Body language, voice, facial expressions…he tracked them all, and then did it again. And again. There was a curious blankness overlaid with a touch of hostility about Hotch that bothered the older man tremendously. _It's a diversionary tactic. He's working it like he's never worked it before…God, he must be terrified. I bet he tries to get confrontational, tries to start a fight so he can leave without letting on how genuinely scared he is. Yep…here we go…_

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" The Unit Chief bristled at his doctor. The glare, the posturing, the angry, thunderous, baritone rumble; it all might have worked at another time, another place, with another audience. But not here, not with a trained psychiatrist and a professional profiler in attendance.

"What do you _think_ it means?" It was a perfectly legitimate response; words intended to guide the patient into exploring his own thoughts and motives beneath the surface. But Fletcher took a little private satisfaction in making it sound barbed. He was devoting a lot of his personal time and energy to Agent Hotchner. It was past the hour when he'd normally be home. He was tired, hungry and grouchy enough to let some pettiness he normally kept under lock and key fly free. Besides, he was worried. He'd never had a patient black out for no apparent reason. And the uncanny imitation of Peter Lewis had been unsettling.

Rossi read all the undercurrents. "Gentlemen, it's been a long day. Maybe we should…"

"No. We're not done here." Despite feeling his professional patience beginning to fray, Fletcher didn't want to let Hotch off the hook at what he considered a critical juncture. He'd locked eyes with the Unit Chief and neither man was blinking. "I'm going to be blunt, Aaron, so if you'd rather do this in private, you might want to ask your friend to leave the room."

Hotch went statue-still and statue-quiet. After a moment he swallowed, unsure of what might be in the offing. "No. Dave can stay." It almost sounded like a question.

"Alright." The psychiatrist raised his chin, keeping Aaron under observation through narrowed lids. "It's no secret that you were abused by your father." He paused, giving Hotch a chance to react. The only sign that his words had hit a target was the man's thinning lips, pressed tight with anxiety.

"I've read everything about you. You know that. What you might not know is that I've read everything I could find about the Bureau's experiences with Peter Lewis. I thought it prudent, since he was instrumental in making your sessions with me mandatory." Still no reaction.

"In the case that first brought Lewis to light, his victims believed to the depth of their souls that the fantasies he planted in their minds were true. He used them to avenge his father's wrongful accusations, even though those accusers were children and were coerced, yes?" Hotch gave a slight nod, lips still pressed bloodless.

"And weren't _you_ the first one to reach the conclusion that Lewis himself had also fallen right in line and supported all those false accusations? Again, even though he was a child, too? Even though an adult was leading him? Pressuring him? Didn't you exhume the knowledge that he had betrayed his own father?" No nod this time, but both Fletcher and Rossi could see Hotch's chest rising and falling with increased respiration.

"You twisted a knife in the wound that hurt Lewis the most, Aaron; the wound that had festered since childhood. The wound that he built his entire life around. Don't you realize he did the same thing to _you_?" Some blinking, at last some blinking.

"You've been carrying around father-son issues all your life, Aaron. You saw Lewis for what he was, for what he'd done. And he…couldn't…stand it. So he took revenge on you." Hotch's breaths had turned shallow. "He didn't have to dig very deep, did he? He found what you fear most, but he also found what hurt you most; your deepest, purest pain."

"Stop it." The Unit Chief rasped out the words; more plea than command.

"And he had no trouble linking an abused boy's doubts and agony to your doubts in yourself as a man, as an agent, and as a father…"

"Please…please stop…" Hotch breathed the appeal, almost inaudible.

"… _especially_ as a father. That's why you keep circling back to your son, isn't it?"

"Please…no…"

"And you _believe_ everything Lewis built into your psyche just as thoroughly and completely and deeply as any of those people who swore to you they weren't killers; who believed the culprit was Mr. Scratch, a shadow-monster with talons."

Eyes fixed on his teammate, Rossi reached a temporizing hand out; settled it on Fletcher's knee, hoping the doctor would pull back before…

"STOP IT!"

The roar issuing from Hotch's throat made Dave catch his breath and hold it, muscles tensed, ready to intercede, if the verbal force presaged physical violence.

But Fletcher spoke with a calm so steady, it carried as much power as a shout. "I don't know how to stop it, Aaron. You're the only one who can do that."

The expression that slid into place over Hotch's features was an odd mixture of shocked realization and terror. As if he knew how disturbing such a visage was to the others, Aaron bent forward, burying his face in his hands.

Slowly, he began to rock to the rhythm of the storm cresting inside him.


	43. Team Number Two

Hotch rocked himself upright, dragging his hands down his face just enough to peer over the tips of his fingers.

Dark eyes did a frantic search for a savior, an anchor, anything that would keep him from swirling away on currents of panic.

Rossi bolted from his chair. His best friend's body language and white-rimmed gaze broadcast stark need. Ignoring Dr. Fletcher's glance that had kept him in check during the session, Dave covered the distance to the couch in two bounding steps, jolting the younger man as he dropped beside him and swept him into an embrace.

"It's gonna be okay, Aaron…" Rossi leveled a glare at the doctor. "Everything will be fine…"

Fletcher's jaw clenched. He understood the impulse to comfort, but he couldn't join in.

There was no guarantee that Dave's assurances would be realized, and he had wanted to make a point about Hotch's responsibility in his treatment. Things were becoming more complex and stranger than he could have imagined. He'd thought it prudent to remind Aaron that he had more control over his own mental health than any outsider, even a warped genius using psychotropic drugs and his own daddy-issues to forge vengeance.

Still, he couldn't let things end on this note. You didn't bring a patient to a pinnacle and then abandon him there. It would be too easy for him to make a misstep and tumble from that psychic height. Besides, Rossi looked as though he were gearing up for war and might make a defensive strike.

And then, he did.

"What the hell, Doc? You rip a guy's heart out and then tell him no one can help? Where'd you go to school? Seminar for Sadists? What kind of…"

Fletcher held both palms up toward the angry agent, interrupting the flow of censure. "Have a little faith, Dave. Jeez. I'm saying that any words I offer won't help unless Aaron himself is prepared to accept them at face value…even if he can't accept them in his heart yet. He's not clear on the reality of things. I think we proved that by going over _these_ …" He picked up the sheaf of reports from his lap, brandishing them in his own defense. "He's going to have to exercise a tremendous amount of trust in outsiders to get a handle on this."

"Great way to start." Wry cynicism dripped from the words. "Had a lot of success with that kind of tactic, have you?"

The psychiatrist bit his bottom lip, narrowing his eyes as he studied the tableau before him: two men whose relationship had become crystal clear in seconds. _Father and son-ish. More than I would have expected. So maybe the damage Aaron's been carrying around isn't such a deep, dark secret._ He blew out an exasperated sigh. _Just means Lewis reached the wound that much faster; opened it and widened it that much more_. As sympathetic as he might be, however, Fletcher's own ego demanded he defend himself.

"Look, I told you Moral Injury Syndrome is an emerging field. This is new ground. Now, I'll do my best to help you, Aaron…to see you through it, but both of you have to understand that there is no standard therapy here. There are theories. Suppositions. What-ifs. For us to make any headway at all, you're both going to have to trust me." The doctor leaned forward, pointing every earnest, professional hope he had toward a man he truly did want to help. "Think you can do that?" His voice softened. "Because there's no other way. And you can't go this alone, Aaron. You do need help."

After several, tense moments, Hotch gave one slow, sad nod. _I'm scared. I don't want to do this…and I don't have a choice._

Rossi felt the body in his grip shiver, then tense as the Unit Chief rallied, coming back to the one concern he could never abandon. "What about my son? Jack needs help."

Fletcher's sigh was weary. "You need it first." His eyes moved to the senior agent. "Dave, you said you weren't sure how you could help when we started this session."

"Still not sure…unless it's to protect Aaron from unsound psychiatric practices." Rossi's grumble was accompanied by a steely glare. Understandable or not, he didn't appreciate seeing someone he cared for more deeply than he'd admit reduced to an emotional pudding. He'd hated it when they'd found Hotch sobbing and savaging Foyet's corpse. He'd hated it in the aftermath of Lewis's attack. He hated it now.

"I'm sorry if it seems that way, but as I said, I'm feeling my way. And I get it, Dave. You don't like seeing your friend hurt. But I'll warn you now, in any deep therapy, even if the cause was common and the steps to take laid out in a nice, neat path…even then, the patient will go through cycles of emotion. Powerful, eviscerating emotion. If he didn't, we wouldn't be reaching the root of his damage." Fletcher studied Rossi, looking for signs that would reassure him that this was the best person to whom Aaron's care could be entrusted. "This will happen again. And again. Can you take it? Are you strong enough to stand by him?"

Dave's arms tightened around the younger man. It was the sign the doctor had hoped for. "I taught him everything he knows, and I'm not done yet; at least that's how it feels. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good. You asked what you could do; your role in this situation?" Fletcher locked eyes with Rossi. "Be his filter. When you think his recall is skewed…when you think his perception is reading things wrong…when something makes you think he's troubled and trying to disguise it… that's where you come in."

Dave's regard shifted. Rather than challenging the psychiatrist, he surveyed Hotch, who still seemed a little wild-eyed, but content to stay within the arms that shielded him. Fletcher continued.

"I have a colleague I can consult with; a Dr. Mason. He might have some insights to offer in how we can proceed, but the best countermeasure I can think of to debunk Lewis's work, is for someone who truly knows Aaron…knows his world, his heart, his soul…to redirect him when he veers off course."

"You think that'll be enough?"

"No, but it's a start. And it's something that can be done on your own." The doctor gave Hotch a sad half-smile. "Being able to take any action is a good thing. It'll give you both a sense of control. You're not a helpless victim, Aaron. And you've got a team again. Just as you've got one in the BAU, you've got me and Dave and, like your tech analyst, I'm sure Dr. Mason will be willing to provide information that'll help us figure things out."

Hotch shivered again. He whispered one word. "Jack."

"I asked you to trust me. So here's a chance for you to put that into practice." Fletcher gave each word weight. "Some of your concern about your son has been manufactured by Lewis. Whatever he did to you, Aaron, tying and twisting a number of incidents and lifelong wounds into a gorgon's knot…as we unravel it, you'll be able to see your son more clearly. You'll know better what he needs and why. Of course, I'll help you with him. I want to, but you come first.

"Your boy stands a much better chance of laying his demons when yours have been slain."

Once more, Hotch nodded. He closed his eyes and reached deep, looking for…

…trust.

XXXXXXXXXXX

It was late evening by the time Rossi escorted Hotch into the foyer of his townhouse.

The first order of business was to call Jessica and confirm that Jack would be staying with her for the night. Maybe longer.

Aaron spoke to his son. He didn't have much trouble explaining the situation; the child could detect a maelstrom of emotions and weariness in his father's voice. He asked what he'd always asked when Daddy was broken.

"Are you okay?"

Hotch was about to reply as he'd always replied when the words stuck in his throat. "I'm fi…"

After holding each other and revealing their weaknesses and worries even a little bit, it felt worse than a backwards step to proclaim he was 'fine.' It felt like a lie. Aaron drew a deep breath and shut his eyes, the better to hear every nuance of his son's voice, the better to ascertain if truth was a mistake.

"I…I'll be okay, but I have to work on it for a while."

"With a doctor?"

"Yes. One who'll make sure I'm completely fine."

A small, bitter silence ensued. When Jack broke it, his voice had a questing sort of tension in it, as if he were testing the situation; as if there were only one right answer.

"Daddy, are you all alone right now?"

Hotch blinked. Not the question he'd expected. "No."

"Is Mr. Rossi there?"

"Yeah, he is."

"Good." The tension went out of his son's tone. " 'Cause he's good for you. 'Night, Daddy. Love you."

" 'Night, Buddy. Love you…proud of you…"

Holding his son's voice in his hand, hearing its honesty, Aaron thought once again that he'd do anything, undergo anything for Jack.

He'd even trust a man he barely knew, and a new sort of team he wished he didn't need.


	44. Instincts

After a sleepless night and a long day, both attributable to working on Agent Hotchner's case, Dr. Fletcher tidied up the last bits of business in his office as quickly as he could.

He made sure files for the following day's patients were pulled and in order. He let impressions of his session with Hotch settle in his mind as he performed these mundane chores, finding the routine soothing. His last task was to jot down notes pertaining to the appointment with the two agents. Halfway in, Fletcher gave himself a mental kick: once again, he'd forgotten to bring up the subject of recording their meetings. No sooner did the thought occur than he also remembered his phone had gone off during the session.

Still castigating himself, the psychiatrist pulled his cell out and brought up missed calls. And groaned.

Dr. Mason…the colleague who'd been goading him about recording in the first place…the colleague whose help and advice he'd trailed in front of Aaron, hoping to foster a feeling of security by terming them all a 'team'…the colleague whom he hoped would serve as a sounding board in matters concerning moral injury…the colleague known for a somewhat belligerent attitude.

Feeling a little like an errant schoolboy, Fletcher called Mason's office number. It was after hours. He expected either an answering service or a voicemail box where he could leave a message. He was caught off-guard when the irascible, little doctor picked up on the second ring.

"Fletcher!? That you?"

"Dr. Mason. I…I didn't think you'd be working this late." Cringing inside, the tired psychiatrist fumbled the words out.

"Ha! I bet!" Fletcher wondered what that might mean, but Mason barreled on, giving him no chance to ask. "You were supposed to keep me in the loop. With that FBI patient? What happened? Decided to go solo, did you?"

Fletcher felt himself fraying around the edges. Then, in the split second before he realized his reaction probably had a lot to do with weariness and hunger…he snapped. His voice was as cold as iron.

"Dr. Mason, I'm the one who called _you_. First, because I thought you'd appreciate knowing about my MIS patient. Second, because I thought you might have some valuable input regarding his therapy. But I assure you, if I need to 'go solo,' as you so candidly put it, I will do so without any qualms whatsoever as to how it affects _you_. This isn't a brass ring on a carousel, Doctor. It's a man whose life is spiraling out of control. He needs professional care that hinges on trust. He's a very perceptive individual who'll have no trouble detecting suspicion and _dis_ trust among his care providers, so…"

Fletcher was hitting his stride and would have happily continued, risking the severance of all ties, when Hieronymus Mason's peevish voice sliced its way into his diatribe like the shrill whine of a table saw.

"Fletcher! Fletcher, hang on! I _am_ concerned on your patient's behalf!" In truth, the little doctor had sensed this golden opportunity slipping away, being carried out to sea on a wave of professional discord. Whatever else he might be, Mason was shrewd. He'd spent a lifetime poring over just such exchanges, closing his eyes at night in his bed and running them on a repetitive loop that only stopped when he'd won an imaginary victory, delivering frighteningly witty, cutting remarks and leaving his opponent-colleagues verbally bloodied.

Mason knew what it felt like to lose and he was determined not to let that happen again. Not this early in the game, when he hadn't even had a chance to observe the morally wounded FBI agent whom he'd already placed on a publish-worthy pedestal. It was hard, but Hieronymus reined in his ego and even went so far as to dangle a conciliatory carrot.

"Fletcher, Fletcher, Fletcher…We're _both_ in this to help the patient, but I'm looking even farther down the road. Just think what we could do: all those suffering under the guise of PTSD with no one to turn to, and no way of recognizing that they're special; that they need a different kind of therapy." Mason tried to lower his voice to a soothing register. "We're on the same side; your patient's side. And I can help. You know that or you wouldn't have involved me in the first place."

On the other end of the line, Dr. Fletcher squeezed his eyes shut, bit his lip, and did his best to shake off what he knew had been an unproductive, emotional outburst. He reminded himself to take his own advice: put the patient's welfare first. Mason had paused, waiting for a response. Agent Hotchner's case hung in the balance. Fletcher took a deep breath, envisioning himself inhaling tolerance and calm.

"Yes. Yes, of course, Dr. Mason. It's been a long day. Maybe we could start again? Actually, I was returning your call."

Seizing the lifeline that he hoped would wedge his foot farther into the doorway, Hieronymus tamped down his natural tendency to vent his unfiltered annoyance. "Yes. Well…thank you." His mind worked feverishly to edge its way past the suspicion that he was being actively blocked from participating in something so potentially significant as a fresh perspective on MIS. "The reason I called, uh, I…I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help you, Fletcher. That's all." Mason felt a thrill of accomplishment. It wasn't often that he could come off as a benevolent force, especially when his true motive had been to accuse rather than aid.

"Thank you. I had something like that in mind. I was hoping you'd be willing to act as a sounding board for Mr. Hotchner. He's been tampered with beyond the usual scope of moral injury, although that's still a large part of his problem."

"So…so you want me to serve as a _reference_ tool?" It was nearly impossible to harness the outrage that such a proposal engendered in Hieronymus. _Me?! Me, the superior mind being relegated to…to the_ _ **background**_ _?!_ Nonetheless, he bit back his initial response, then turned it toward what he considered a more appropriate role. "Well, of…of course. Of course, Fletcher. Be happy to help. Just send me the recordings you've made of your sessions with him."

"Oh. Yeah. About that…"

Mason's ears pricked up. "You haven't made any? None?" _Idiot! You don't deserve this opportunity, nor my help! Imbecile!_

"I told you, Doctor. This patient moves fast. And there's more to it than I thought. Things are getting complex."

"All the more reason to document them with recordings!"

"I know. Sorry."

 _Good! Strike now, while he's on the defensive._ A long-suffering sigh preceded… "Well, maybe it's best. Rather than interrupt the natural flow of your sessions, it might be better if I sat in on them. You know…got a firsthand look at what we're dealing with."

The long pause that ensued only served to solidify Hieronymus's suspicions that his colleague was considering taking this journey alone. He held his breath, waiting…

"I've already got someone sitting in on the sessions. Too many people would be counter-productive. Mr. Hotchner is a very private, very introverted man."

Mason's tone hardened, brooking no argument. "That may be, but he's also a man who needs help; help that doesn't yet exist as an acknowledged, psychiatric specialty. You need me, Fletcher. Your patient needs me." The little doctor played his trump card. "You took an oath when you passed your medical boards, you know. How can you willfully deny help? How?"

And, in the end, Fletcher couldn't.

Hieronymus Mason would become a regular fixture beginning with Hotch's next appointment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi sat in a chair opposite Hotch, studying his friend's downcast demeanor.

The Unit Chief hadn't said a word since calling his son. He'd walked to the living room like an automaton and taken a seat on the couch, still holding his phone in one hand, his distracted gaze fixed on an inner landscape. Dave let Aaron wander wherever his mind had taken him. After half an hour, the older man leaned across the space separating them. He reached out and jogged Hotch's knee.

"Hey. You."

Aaron's head came up, blinking. "Huh?"

A sad half-smile tweaked one side of Rossi's lips. "How ya holdin' up?"

Small, repetitive head shakes in response.

"You're gonna hafta give me a little more than that, Aaron."

Hotch's eyes fixed on Dave's. Years of shared experiences and compassion stretched between them; an almost palpable connection. It might not have been verbal, but it was all Hotch could give at the moment. Rossi understood.

"Aaron, it'll get better. I'm sure of it. And I won't leave. I'll see you through."

Hotch's bottom lip trembled. There was something unsettlingly disconsolate and lost in his expression. Rossi had seen the look before, but this time there was a new facet to it. It was overlaid with a veneer of fear.

Dave still felt as though Fletcher had wound up his patient and left him teetering in a precarious position. Intellectually, he could understand the psychiatrist's methodology, but Rossi's big, Italian heart objected nonetheless. The words were quiet when he spoke them.

"Aaron, what scares you the most about this?" The younger man's eyes widened as though such a question were taboo. "Knowing the name of something gives you power over it." Rossi tilted his head in silent apology for the fortune cookie sentiment. "Might sound corny, but a lot of cultures believe in the power of names. So…name your fear, Aaron. Name it…"

Hotch sucked in a hard breath, letting his eyelids close. _Good_ , Dave thought. _He's giving it some careful consideration. Good…_

Another deep breath, but this one more gentle and held in longer, easing the internal bonds Aaron always kept cinched tight in the name of self-control.

"Trust. Dave, it keeps coming up and…and I don't see how I can…"

"You're thinking too much, Aaron. Trust has more to do with your heart than your brain. I know you've got it in you. Look…" Rossi leaned closer. "…Lewis messed with your perceptions, your mind. But even the doc said that he accessed issues that you carry around pretty close to the surface. I'm willing to bet he didn't go deep. He didn't touch your heart…your soul, if you want to call it that. So do what you've always done, Aaron. Use your instincts. Don't weigh pros and cons. Just let your gut feelings guide you. You know you can trust me…and I think you know deep down that Fletcher's not a bad guy. You wouldn't have wanted to talk to him these last couple of times if you'd had serious reservations, right?" Hotch gave a slow, uncertain nod. "Just follow your instincts, and I'll be there if you need guidance. Like the doc said: I'll be your filter."

Dave paused, searching Aaron's features. "You can do it. Listen to your heart. Have a little faith."

Hotch still looked like a man wavering on a tightrope, barely able to keep his footing.

Rossi reached toward him again, this time covering the hand that still held the cell phone. Aaron's eyes dropped to their clasped hands, seeing the symbolism of his connection with Jack sandwiched between his own and his best friend's palms.

Dave was right: something gut-deep and instinct-true stirred in Hotch's heart.

And he trusted Rossi to understand when, a short time later, he took the pillow from Jack's bed and fell asleep hugging it, nose buried in the scent of his son.


	45. The Memory Game

"Aunt Jess? Wha'd'you know about when Mom died?"

Jessica Brooks' hands froze for a moment. Hoping her nephew hadn't noticed her reaction, she resumed rinsing off breakfast dishes prior to driving him to school. It had only been an instant of shock. She never got used to the odd questions and observations that sometimes slipped out of Jack's mouth. She blamed Aaron for that. If he'd held down a normal nine-to-five job…if he'd been around for more of his son's childhood…and honestly, if he'd been in another line of business altogether, then Haley…Haley…

 _Don't go there._ Jessica winced. _No more 'what if's. Too late for that._

She resumed rinsing. "What do you mean?"

"I kind of remember some stuff."

This time it was her lungs that froze. _No. Please, no…_ "Like what?"

Long pause; enough time for Jessica to finish putting the plates in the dishwasher; enough time for her to send up a silent plea that the boy had lost interest and wouldn't pursue the topic.

"How bad was Daddy hurt?"

With the slow deliberation of a woman facing a firing squad, Jessica turned, fixing Jack with a stare of blended dread and resignation. "He was in a fight. Bruises. Cuts. Nothing major, though, thank goodness." _No, nothing major; just a shattered heart and a new level of dead in his eyes that's never really faded; not to those who know him._

Ready for school, Hotch's son toyed with the straps on his backpack. "He cries like it still hurts."

The words knifed into Jessica's heart. She might not be a mother herself, but her maternal instincts knew when they were needed. She crossed to the table where Jack had finished packing his books, and dropped into a chair, bringing her to his eye level. "Of course it still hurts him. Your daddy and mommy loved each other so, so much. It still hurts _everyone_ who loved her. Do you understand that, sweetheart?"

Jack nodded, but his eyes dropped to the tabletop. "I miss her, but…" He raised a guilty gaze to his aunt. "…but I don't remember her so much. Except for…"

"Oh, honey…" Jessica gave her sister's son a sturdy hug, prolonging it until her own voice had steadied and could once again communicate what she fancied was motherly comfort and assurance. When she released Jack, she held him where he would be sure to see the sincerity in her eyes. "Listen, we have to go or you'll be late for school, but next time you sleep over…? I'll tell you all kinds of stories about your mom. I'll tell you all the things she loved growing up…and all the trouble we'd get into…and everything about her, 'cause I've known her longer than anyone…even your daddy. Sound good?"

Jack gazed into his aunt's hopeful, well-meaning eyes and mustered a smile. "Sure. That'd be great."

"All right then! It's a date. Next time. Now, we better get going."

Aunt and nephew hustled out the door, both keeping up a cheerful expression for the other's sake. In reality, Jessica was vowing to have a discussion with Aaron about spending more time sharing his own memories of Haley with his son.

As for Jack, he was debating whether he should have corrected his aunt at the start. He hadn't been talking about wanting more information about Mom when she was a kid, although he'd certainly welcome it.

He'd been wondering what she knew about that shadowy day when Mom had died, and when Daddy had been hurt so much that he still cried.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi kept a weather eye on Hotch.

There was a tentative quality about the Unit Chief where once there had been decisiveness. Dave didn't think it was so obvious to others, particularly since they weren't called into the field and Hotch spent most of his time sequestered in his office.

But the team knew about the repercussions that were still echoing through their ranks. Rossi felt a wave of gratitude toward each and every one of them for their discretion. No one did more than cast sympathetic looks Aaron's way, and only when he wasn't likely to see them. Their boss's previous angry outburst had been smoothed over by his subsequent apologies, and no one, including Hotch, wanted an encore.

Rossi took his role as reality-filter seriously. He spent as much time with Aaron as possible. He stepped up when he felt it necessary, suggesting the BAU leader go home early whenever it seemed his self-doubt was too near the surface and he began second-guessing himself. It was at once gratifying and disturbing when Hotch would obey with only token resistance.

Dave found himself at a loss as to how to offer support in the way he wished he could. He wanted to grab whatever was wrong with Aaron and wrestle it into submission; send it shrieking into oblivion; stomp on it until it was nothing more than a puddle of gel. It didn't help that when he imagined doing so, the personification of the thing with which he grappled had Peter Lewis's face, and the nasal hiss of Peter Lewis's laughter.

Rossi was relieved when the next appointment with Dr. Fletcher rolled around. As emotionally eviscerating as they could be, the psychiatrist was the best hope Aaron had.

Knowing Hotch's current trust issues, Dave decided to make an effort to demonstrate his _own_ trust in whatever the doctor proposed.

Maybe some of his positive attitude would rub off on Aaron.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch felt like an endangered species.

The environment he needed to survive was slowly being encroached upon. If something wasn't done to halt the process, there would come a day when there was no place left for him to feel at home.

He could sense Rossi's efforts to bolster his spirits. Knowing his old friend felt it necessary made it that much more difficult to function in his usual manner. He could feel the team surrounding him like cotton batting. There was a softness to their exchanges with and around him. Mindful of his temper, he said nothing that might be mistaken for censure of their considerate support.

The Unit Chief grew ever quieter.

So, it came as an unwelcome surprise when Jessica dropped by before picking up Jack from school on the afternoon of Hotch's next doctor's appointment with the express intention of telling her ex-brother-in-law that he was too close-mouthed.

"Jack's forgetting Haley, Aaron. Now, I'm going to do my best to keep her alive in his memory whenever I have him with me, but you've got to do more on your end, too."

Hotch's blank look was a sign of his bewildered reaction kept under wraps. Jessica took it for lack of understanding.

"He asked me about her last time he slept over. He should be asking _you_. No…" She shook her head. "…he shouldn't _have_ to ask. You should be weaving Haley into daily conversation. You're a good father, Aaron, and you're a profiler. You should know that he needs this." Hotch's lips pressed tight; his eyes filled, but still the silence, the very lack of verbal response that Jessica was decrying held him. She frowned. "Explain to me. Why aren't you talking about Haley?"

Hotch swallowed and dropped his eyes in a manner so reminiscent of Jack, it sent a jolt of sorrow through Jessica. "I'm not sure it's a good idea right now." Softly said; laced with a kind of shame.

"Why not?"

All he could do was shake his head and hope she'd leave him alone.

 _Because the things I remember might not be real, and both Jack and Haley deserve better than I can give. And I don't know how long it'll be before I'll be able to trust my own memories._

 _Or if I'll ever be able to._


	46. Malicious Intent

It was hate at first sight.

Well, maybe not hate, but something akin; something born of years of carefully cultivated contempt as a defense against admitting deep, longing envy that had plagued Hieronymus Mason since puberty…since the day he'd suspected, and then dreaded, and then accepted, that he would always be a diminutive man with a round face and an uninviting smile that would never find its way to movie-idol status.

In the intervening years Hieronymus had found solace in his superior achievements in the field of psychiatric research. He hadn't bothered developing his people skills because people had disappointed him so thoroughly. They'd proved that the majority of them shared his private opinion of his personal shortcomings. He'd armed himself against them. _I'm better than they are. I'm smarter than they are. So there!_

And then came Hotch.

Fletcher had required additional coaxing and wrangling the day of Agent Hotchner's appointment. He didn't like springing a new presence on his patient. He suggested he introduce Mason and then, if Aaron showed signs of acceptance, the researcher could ask permission to sit in beginning with the _next_ session.

"What? NO! Absolutely not!" Hieronymus's small face creased with a beetling frown. His shoulders hunched, making him look neck-less. His brain spun, fashioning irrefutable arguments in his favor.

"You said this patient moves fast, Fletcher. By my calculations, you're already halfway…no, _more_ than halfway…through his mandated treatment. You also said he was more complex than you'd expected. It's been a slipshod process so far…" Mason didn't deign to acknowledge the flash of anger in his colleague's eyes at that judgment. "…You're not documenting your work properly. You're missing opportunities you don't even recognize both in this one man's analysis, and in compiling data that could benefit the future of psychiatry…Shall I go on?" The little doctor tilted his head back until, despite a lack of stature, he managed to look down his nose at Fletcher.

"You make some good points, Dr. Mason, but the bottom line is that the final say will be Mr. Hotchner's, not mine. I'm not going to damage the fragile trust I might have established with this man by badgering and bullying him into submitting to anything that makes him uncomfortable." Fletcher pulled himself up short. He didn't want to tangle with someone like Mason right before an appointment. He needed to be the soul of calm control so he could help his patient feel the same. "I'll introduce you and we'll see where it goes from there."

Mason had opened his mouth to add a few more of Fletcher's failings to the list he'd been mentally compiling and savoring for days, but the outer office door opened and two men entered, talking in quiet tones. One voice was disturbingly baritone. Hieronymus's hackles rose. It was reminiscent of those deep-voiced men who contrasted so unfortunately with the buzzing whine which characterized his own speech.

Fletcher motioned the men in and introduced them.

And it was hate…or something closely related…at first sight.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Aaron Hotchner, David Rossi…I'd like you to meet my colleague, Dr. Hieronymus Mason. He's the one I mentioned at our last meeting, Aaron." Fletcher stepped back and observed the sub-textual communication of the human animal. And felt a frown coming on.

Hotch extended his hand, eyes appraising the little stranger. Fletcher saw his patient's movements were tentative. The polite gesture slow and cautious. _He's unsure. This whole mélange of experiences these last few weeks and longer, are undermining his confidence._

Rossi's presence confirmed Fletcher's previous impression that there was a parental aspect to the older agent's feelings toward Aaron. His posture straightened, attention focused on Mason as though he were ready to step in and protect his friend should the need arise.

Fletcher watched all three, but his concern was primarily for his patient. He missed the flash of surprise and hostility that his colleague quickly mastered, burying it beneath the bird-dance of social protocol. After a beat, Mason reached out and gripped Hotch's hand. A smile that was a mere stretching of lips, a showing of teeth, accompanied the shake.

"Nice to _finally_ meet you, Mr. Hotchner." Mason glanced at Fletcher, hoping he'd catch the implied criticism of not having involved the man at the forefront of MIS in this case from the start. "I've heard a great deal about you." _And I know your type. Men like you have bullied and laughed at and tormented me for most of my life. Tall, dark, handsome: the holy trinity of attraction. Yet here you are…a mental mess. If I wanted to, I bet I could crack you like an egg. Not so strong and superior now, are you…?_

Hotch didn't manage much of a return smile. Something made him want to recoil; he kept the handshake brief. "Good to meet you. I…uh…" Dave's voice played through his mind… _Trust your instincts, Aaron. Lewis didn't go that deep. Trust your instincts._ The Unit Chief turned confused, tortured eyes on the man standing at his side, close enough to feel like shelter…

…and Rossi stepped in with the aplomb and certainty of a seasoned diplomat, sliding his hand in to replace Hotch's. "Dr. Mason. Can't say we've heard too much about _you_ , but I'm sure that'll be remedied before we go much further."

Dave had no trouble pinpointing what made Aaron uneasy. _This guy's been in a lifelong battle with the cards he's been dealt. Big ego…little man. And if Moral Injury Syndrome is fairly new…Little Man Syndrome isn't._ Rossi held the handshake a trifle longer than usual. He didn't squeeze; it wasn't a demonstration of strength, but coupled with his level gaze and the knowing quirk to his lips, he hoped the message he intended would be received by someone versed in psychiatry: _Don't mess with us._

Fletcher detected the subtle currents flowing between Dave and Mason. There was the scent of challenge in the air. The doctor considered stepping in. He would have right away had it been Hotch facing off with Mason. That wouldn't have been a fair fight; psychologically, his patient was at a disadvantage at the moment. Rossi, however, was another matter. _And I don't like Mason much myself, but I need him, or rather Aaron might need him._ But there was no rule that said Fletcher couldn't give it a moment and let someone else pit themselves against his annoying colleague. He found consolation in telling himself that he might gain additional insight into Hotch's best friend; a weak excuse for hoping to vicariously enjoy the situation.

Mason's surface smile began to dim. His eyes shifted to their clasped hands. _Could this man be challenging me? When I'm clearly the superior mind here and this meeting is all_ _ **about**_ _minds?_

Rossi's grin grew sly. "So…Hier-on-y-mus…" He drew the word out with a touch of malice. " _That's_ not a name you hear every day…"

The remnants of Dr. Mason's smile vanished.

Maybe the tall, dark, handsome patient wasn't a match for him…but this older agent with the insolent glint in his eye most definitely…was.


	47. For the Record

Hieronymus edged away, leaving a few feet between himself and the three other men congregated in Dr. Fletcher's office.

To tell the truth, he felt a little hemmed in, like a sapling among evergreens when they were too close. His neck would stiffen looking up at them, swiveling from one to the other as they conversed, so he took his position, much as he had throughout his life, on the fringes.

"Aaron, Dr. Mason was wondering if you'd mind if he sat in on our sessions."

Fletcher's smile was smug. He'd read the unspoken exchange between Mason and Rossi, and he'd allowed himself to rejoice in a petty, unprofessional way. In addition, his estimation of Hotch's best friend had achieved new heights. The man knew how to fight in more ways than those normally associated with a badge and a gun. Fletcher also appreciated a man whose integrity extended beyond the confines of the workplace. He liked the verification that Dave would defend his best friend whether or not it was Bureau-related.

He also enjoyed it when, in response to voicing Mason's wish to be included, the older agent hijacked the conversation, taking the brunt of Mason's disapproval before it could be turned on Aaron.

Rossi bent his neck, looking down at the little psychiatrist. "What could you possibly hope to gain, Hieronymus?" His grin crept wider. "You don't mind if I call you that, do you? You can call me 'Dave.'"

Mason's expression screwed down into a hieroglyph of contempt. " _Mr._ Rossi, my esteemed colleague must have forgotten to mention that I'm at the forefront of the study of Moral Injury Syndrome." He puffed his chest out, unaware it made him look like a pigeon, rather than the eagle he imagined himself to be. "My presence…my knowledge, my experience…could only benefit the patient." He took a deep breath, aiming for a professorial air. "What benefit does _your_ presence bestow on him?"

Rossi's smile tilted up at one corner, sly and sardonic. "I…"

"I want him here." The soft, baritone rumble overrode the other's voices by virtue of its simple sincerity and lack of challenge. All eyes turned toward Hotch. He met Mason's. "I want Dave here. Dr. Fletcher said that sometimes friends know us better than we know ourselves. I…I need him here."

Something about the vulnerability of the statement made Dave and the diminutive doctor rein themselves in.

"You need me, too. I can help." Mason was surprised when the words emerged with more sincerity than ego. He held very still, hoping to ride the crest of his unexpected candor. _Don't ruin it. Don't say any more. Maybe he won't realize who needs whom most. If he gets the idea you're doing him a favor by being here, let him._

Hotch turned his uncertain gaze onto Fletcher. "You said I had to get help first, before my son?" The doctor gave a slow nod in response. Aaron's was sharper, decisive. "Then I'll do whatever it takes."

More than anyone, Rossi felt the waves of self-sacrifice emanating from his Unit Chief. It wasn't an attitude he considered beneficial to the current situation. He was also aware that little Dr. Mason's eyes had grown wide with hope…and maybe something darker, like greed or victory. Dave couldn't be sure. However, he _was_ sure that letting this unknown quantity enter Hotch's treatment was a risk with which he wasn't comfortable. He turned to Fletcher. "Doc, what do you think? Getting a little crowded in here?"

Hotch's psychiatrist opened his mouth to speak, but then clamped his lips shut, subjecting Hieronymus to a disconcerting stare.

The little doctor held his breath. _If you turn on me, Fletcher, I swear I'll find a way to make your life hell! I'll…I'll discredit everything you publish for as long as there's a breath in my body. I_ _ **swear**_ _I will!_

Fletcher chewed on his lip, weighing pros and cons, both personal and professional. He didn't care for Mason, but then the man might indeed prove useful to Aaron. _And Aaron comes first. And I'll be here, and Dave'll be here, so…_ He took a breath and turned to Hotch. "Dr. Mason is an expert, as far as experts go in this field. He might have some valuable input. But if he makes you uneasy, Aaron…"

"No." Hotch shook his head, ignoring the sharp look Rossi was giving him. "If it gets me there faster, so we can focus on Jack, then he's in."

Hieronymus' elation made him rise up on his toes for a moment; a gleeful glint in his eye. He clapped his hands together in triumph. "Good! Very good! Wise decision, Mr. Hotchner! Now, before we get started…" He craned his neck, taking in the contents of his colleague's office. "…where's your recording equipment, Fletcher?"

" _What_?!" Any attitude of suffering acceptance fell away from Hotch as his lawyer's mind balked at the concept of audio or video footage of his private pain. It only took one indiscreet person, or one unthinking tap on a keyboard to ruin careers and spawn embarrassment in this age of high tech social media. It was where he drew the line.

Oblivious to the Unit Chief's consternation, Mason continued to scan the shelves along one wall. "Recording equipment! Recording equipment! Standard procedure."

"No! Absolutely _not_!"

Hieronymus cast a dismissive glance over his shoulder at the patient's outburst…

…and froze.

It was his maiden voyage into the oceanic force of the Hotch Glare. Intimidation was the first emotion elicited by the tall, bristling man before him. Mason might have remained immobilized, like a rabbit confronted by a hungry predator, but Rossi broke the spell, looping an arm around Hotch's shoulders and giving him a friendly jog.

"Of course not, Aaron. No one's going to record anything." He turned a crafty grin on Mason. "Hieronymus didn't understand, that's all."

Recovered, the little psychiatrist felt his distaste for men of the Unit Chief's physical stature and aesthetic appeal surge up anew. His stomach twisted, but he entered the fray. " _Mr_. Rossi, it _is_ standard procedure to record a patient's treatment." Having won the right to be involved at all, Mason was sure he could convince these laymen, uneducated in the tools of his trade. "It's vital that I…that is…that _we_ …" He grated the word out, loathe to include Fletcher, but acknowledging the necessity. "…have some kind of record to which we can refer once the session is over." _And where do you think I'll get my direct quotes for publication?_ "My colleague has been sadly remiss in not doing so already. So you see…"

"So it doesn't have to be anything of a digital nature..." Rossi released Hotch and leaned toward Fletcher's desk, sweeping up the pad and pen that had been used to keep _him_ in order during Aaron's last visit. He shoved the items into Mason's hands.

"Here ya go, Hieronymus. Record away. Knock yourself out."


	48. Worth a Thousand Words

Mason didn't say much more; at least not at a volume the others could hear.

It was debatable whether he had found in within himself to accept the situation with its non-recording mandate, or if he was fuming to the extent that speech had deserted him. However, his voice did come roaring back when, a short time later, Rossi made a suggestion.

Hotch's momentary temper had drained away in the wake of Dave's adroit handling of Mason, but he was looking like the emotional equivalent of a shaky, newborn colt. He glanced at the couch with loathing.

"Aaron, why don't you go splash some water on your face and take a few breaths?" Fletcher had reminded himself that his focus should be on his patient, not his colleague. "The men's room is out the door and to the left. Take your time."

Hotch nodded and, eyes fixed on the floor, brushed past Mason as he exited.

"He gonna be alright?" Fletcher addressed Rossi, his tone low and grave.

The elder agent shrugged. "He's fragile. Doesn't like it when he loses control, especially here where he knows he's under observation." He turned a reprimanding glare on Mason. "Neither of us really expected that to happen even _before_ the session started."

Hieronymus raised his chin and crossed his arms, still clutching the pad and pencil. He refused to dignify the criticism of a layman with any retort. After a few silent moments, Hotch returned, this time stealing a quick, apprehensive look at the diminutive doctor.

It would have been fine, if that had been the extent of it.

It would have been a mere nothing, if Rossi hadn't been on-point and still in protective mode.

It would have passed unnoticed, if Mason hadn't glowered and let his eyes do a slow, insolent tracking of the Unit Chief from head to toe and back again, a smirk lending added rudeness to his expression.

Dave's face did a fair imitation of granite. His voice followed suit. "Dr. Fletcher, do you think it would be a good idea, considering Hotch is a little riled at the moment, for Dr. Mason to maintain a discrete distance? At least to start with?" Both psychiatrists seemed puzzled. Rossi's regard never wavered. "I think Aaron would be much more comfortable if Hieronymus…oh, I dunno…maybe sat in a chair outside the door?"

"Now see here!" The little doctor blinked and puffed, teeth gritting with outrage.

Fletcher's control was admirable. Having been on the receiving end of a number of slights courtesy of his associate, his inner Petty Person rejoiced at watching the little man's buttons being pushed. And Dave did seem to take such glee in doing so. It was a vicarious revenge for Fletcher.

It was also exactly the wrong atmosphere for his patient. Hotch stood in an uncertain tremble, torn between his vow to sacrifice his own emotional privacy for his son's sake, and the hostility ricocheting about the room.

"In a minute, I going to ask both of you to leave." Fletcher overrode whatever else Mason might have said. "Let's not forget why we're here, gentlemen." _To ease the pressures and heal the hurts of this young father, agent, friend…patient._

Hieronymus' lips puckered and pressed. _To make sure you don't blow this opportunity, Fletcher! To get a first-hand look at the malady I've been positing and lecturing about for months!_

Rossi took a deep breath, his posture deceptively casual. _To protect. To help. To make sure Hotch finds his way out of whatever maze those men…his father and Peter Lewis and the denizens of the DOJ who doubted him…constructed around him. And I'll be damned if I let another one add a few more twists and turns to it._

There were a few beats of silence while priorities and pressures settled into place.

Once again, things might have continued on in a conciliatory mood, but…

"I'm not taking a seat outside!" Mason declared, assuming as wide-legged a stance as he could to demonstrate his immovability.

Dave's eyes fixed on him with cobra intensity, unblinking. However, the aggressive attitude proved unnecessary. Fletcher snagged a chair with one hand and dragged it to the doorway. He'd had enough.

His voice was low as he stood close to Hieronymus, but his tone brooked no argument. "This is _my_ office, Doctor, and this is _my_ patient. You're welcome to stay and listen in, but your presence has already been a disruptive influence. I'd like you to sit in on this if you have anything of value to offer. Based on your contribution so far, I'm not…"

"That may be so, Fletcher, but this is _my_ syndrome!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mason heard how wrong they were. The little psychiatrist's complexion achieved a new shade of purple. But rather than apologize or backtrack, he forged ahead. Admitting error had never been his strong suit. "I've got more knowledge and experience in this field than anyone now practicing!"

Fletcher positioned the chair just outside the door, around the jamb, out of sight of the office occupants. He pulled his colleague into the outer vestibule and let his growing ferocity and frustration color his words. "Dr. Mason, I appreciate everything you've accomplished in your remarkable career. But this is the bottom line: you don't have any patients. You work in a lab with animals and volunteers. _That_ man in _there_ is neither. We've both taken the same oath to help. Now, the best you can do is sit here…" He gave the chair an emphatic bounce. "…listen, take your notes, and we'll discuss the session later…and how we can unravel what Mr. Hotchner's been through."

Without waiting for a response, Fletcher turned on his heel, re-entered his office, and pulled the door after him, leaving it ajar a few inches…with Hieronymus on the outside.

XXXXXXXXXX

"I'm sorry about that, Aaron."

Fletcher paused, reading his patient's body language as best he could, as well as taking any clues he might garner from Rossi's hovering presence. _He's tense, defensive, scared, and doesn't feel safe. So much for creating an environment conducive to trust! Thanks…thanks_ _ **so**_ _much, Mason._

When Hotch made his reluctant way to the couch, perching on the edge and still casting wary glances toward the gaping door outside of which Mason had taken up his post, allowing a portion of one size 6 shoe to be visible to anyone who cared to look, Fletcher gave a deep sigh.

"This isn't how I want to work with you two." The psychiatrist rubbed a hand over his brow. He gazed out the window at the darkening sky for a moment before a tentative smile twitched at his lips. "Aaron, do you ever draw things?" The Unit Chief's eyes darted toward Rossi, unsure of himself and wondering if the damage to his memories could have obliterated something as seemingly inconsequential as a hobby. "No big deal. I'm just asking if you doodle while you're working or otherwise set anything down on paper other than words."

"I…no. I don't draw things at all. I don't think so."

Dave smiled. "He doesn't. He's a pen-tapper when he's thinking, but that's all."

"Okay. Fair enough." Fletcher went to his desk and rummaged through a bottom drawer, extracting a larger pad than the one he'd used to silence Rossi…and now Mason…, a pencil, and a magazine, _Psychology Today_. He flipped through the pages, stopping at an advertisement featuring a road cutting through a swathe of trees with a car traveling away from the observer. Folding it over so the ad was topmost, the doctor brought all three items to Hotch. "I want you to copy this. Draw the road and the trees…the car if you want. Just relax and let yourself enjoy it, okay?"

"I…uh…" Aaron's confusion was palpable.

"Just an exercise in relaxation. Focus on something that has nothing to do with any of… _this_!" Fletcher swept an arm outward; a gesture that included all that had happened since his patient's arrival.

Hotch accepted the materials, setting the magazine on a small occasional table and propping the pad across his knees. He stared from one to the other, finally looking up at his doctor who had moved off to sit beside Rossi. "I'm not good at this kind of thing."

Fletcher shrugged. "I'm not asking for Rembrandt. This isn't a test. There's no right or wrong. Just take a break and draw me a picture of that." He flipped one hand in the ad's general direction as though it were peripheral to anything relating to his profession. "If you want anything to drink, there's water in the credenza. I'm just gonna sit here and talk with Dave for a minute. Kind of need a break of my own…"

Hotch watched the two men begin to converse in low, inaudible tones. He blinked at the magazine picture, and then at the blank page before him. With a small, resigned sigh, he set pencil to paper and began the first drawing he'd done since grade school.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Fletcher and Rossi bent their heads together.

"So, Doc…method or madness?" Dave arched his brows toward where Hotch was frowning, the tip of his tongue making an occasional appearance between his lips as he wrestled with his task.

"Method. And maybe a little meanness, too." The agent's look turned inquisitive as Fletcher allowed a tiny twist of a smile to appear. "The method is that I want to see _how_ Aaron handles this. As I said, there's no right or wrong, but there _is_ some information about his mindset to be gained by the way he completes this little assignment. I'll explain more when he's done."

"Okay." Rossi nodded. "So…what about the 'meanness?'"

"Oh. Yeah. That." Fletcher's smile widened. "How d'you think Dr. Mason's doing listening in and taking notes?"

Dave felt his shoulders begin to shake and fought off the urge to guffaw.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Out in the hall, Hieronymus fumed and stewed, chewing grooves into his own pencil.

The only thing he could hear through the gap in the doorway sounded suspiciously like someone trying to muffle laughter.


	49. Shifting Focus

Jack Hotchner's small shoulders slumped.

For the most part he enjoyed his Advanced Modern History class, because the teacher, Mrs. Caldwell, was a creative soul. She required the usual reading and essays, but she peppered her curriculum with special projects that brought a shine to the dusty data. She'd given assignments in the past that involved writing dramatic dialogue as they imagined it might have taken place between historical characters. She'd brought in people who'd lived through recent events and staged animated discussions where history came to life with an immediacy that was rare. But this time her assignment didn't thrill Jack.

The students were to pick an historical event and draw either a scene that had taken place, or a portrait of one of the participants. The subject was space exploration.

So Jack's shoulders slumped.

He was not a gifted artist. Even though Mrs. Caldwell had stressed that she wasn't looking for anything that would be framed and set on display, Jack was unenthusiastic. Mostly because of Jewel Landry, who sat across from him in class.

Jewel wore her auburn hair in a spray of tiny braids strung with iridescent beads. She flaunted a bohemian aesthetic and was forever doodling in the margins of her textbooks: tiny depictions that made Jack's eyes widen with their humor, balanced composition and sense of freedom.

How could he hope to look like anything but a dunce, a troglodyte, a creature possessed of more thumbs than fingers next to someone like Jewel?

With a gusty sigh, he picked up his pencil and began…the tip of his tongue making an appearance as concentration claimed him.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

As the minutes ticked by and no further interruptions occurred, Hotch found himself immersed in his task. The muscles in his lower back eased even as those in his shoulders and hands tightened as he focused on reproducing the deceptively simple scene Fletcher had instructed him to draw.

He was unaware that conversation had stopped. He was under observation.

"What is it you're looking for?" Rossi's whisper was breathy, barely reaching the doctor's ears; certainly inaudible to Hotch, or to Mason where he loitered in the hallway.

"It's a test of internal tension." Fletcher saw the agent's raised brows and elaborated. "How he renders that drawing will tell me how tightly wound he is when left to his own devices. It's a barometer of the stress he places on himself, independent of what the world lays on his shoulders."

Dave's lips pressed together as he nodded. He already had a pretty good idea of what the psychiatrist's diagnosis would be, but seeing a visible demonstration would be interesting nonetheless. He was still puzzled. "So then what? How do you use that to help him?"

Fletcher shrugged. "I educate him about himself. He's the one who has to find a way out. Honestly, Dave, that boy's been through so much, and his pain has been authored by so many, that the best I can do is find a chink in his armor and show it to him. At least, that's the plan for right now and right here."

Rossi watched Aaron's eyes darting from picture to pad and back again. His felt his own inner tension scale up a notch. From where he sat, the treatment plan looked like less than a baby step; and into unproved terrain as well.

 _Is this all guesswork? Does anyone here actually_ _ **know**_ _how to help him?_ Dave bit his lip and waited.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A soft giggle pulled Jack out of focusing on drawing what he hoped approximated a footprint on what he further hoped resembled the surface of the moon. Eyes narrowing, he glanced in the giggle's direction.

Jewel.

Laughing at him? No…there was no meanness in her expression; no derision in her tone. She leaned across the aisle, beaded braids clicking, the scent of vanilla preceding her.

"Hey. Don't be so perfect."

Jack blinked, unsure whether or not he should be annoyed. "Wha'd'you mean?" He looked at his painstaking work, seeing inaccuracies he didn't know how to correct, proportions that were off. He gave a soft snort. "It's _not_ perfect. Anything but."

"I know. So don't try." Jewel blazed a white smile at her classmate, tipping her own drawing toward him. "See?"

Jack stared at the swirls and whirlpools of what he somehow knew were meant to be stars, but really, when you got right down to it, didn't resemble anything but dots and circles. He frowned. It was a very cool picture, but he wasn't sure how it could help him. What was she trying to tell him? What was he supposed to see? "I don't get it."

"It doesn't have to be real. Just draw what it _feels_ like." Jewel set her paper back on her desk and resumed embellishing it. "Space exploration, right? Well, this is how I figure it'd feel to be out there where stars are so thick, they'd move in currents as you flew through them. They'd stir and eddy and…" Her voice faded before his baffled mini-glare.

Jack looked back at his own work. So did Jewel. She shrugged. "Make it feel like you think it would…not like it really is. 'S more fun that way…"

Tilting his head, Hotch's son hesitated. Then, he turned the paper over and started fresh, letting things blur and slide, letting it feel the way he imagined walking on the moon would be. Unsure and new and exciting.

The small, approving purr from the girl who drew drifts of stars rippling with motion urged him on.

Jack relaxed into the assignment. He even began to enjoy it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Okay, Aaron. Let's see what you've got there."

Fletcher stood, stretching the kinks out of his spine, and went to stand over his patient, eyes going directly to the pad of paper.

"Told you I'm not good at this kind of thing." Hotch kept his head down. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Staring at the magazine photo as he had tried to translate each tiny detail into a drawing had made them ache with effort.

Rossi edged forward to stand at Fletcher's shoulder. No one noticed Mason as he peeked around the doorjamb, and then crept closer, drawn to the small gathering that made him resent being excluded even more.

"This isn't a contest, Aaron." He bent nearer. "It's good. In fact it's perfect for what I wanted to see." Fletcher was almost mesmerized by the excruciating attention to detail in the small sample Hotch had managed to produce. It fit into his picture of this patient like a hand finding its home in a remarkably silky, bespoke glove.

Rossi craned his neck toward the small square of pencil-work, and frowned. It was only a truncated portion of the scene provided as inspiration. Instead of trying to grasp the whole picture, Hotch had spiraled down into a tiny, restrictive viewpoint. But that little reproduction was excruciating in its attempt to render every leaf and detail. The Unit Chief's artistic talent wasn't good enough for the result to be photographic, but the effort he'd expended in trying to make it so was obvious. And maybe a little concerning.

Fletcher placed a friendly hand on Hotch's shoulder. "What do you see when you look at that?" The shoulder gave a half-hearted shrug. "Seriously, as a profiler…what does this tell you?"

Aaron took a deep breath, visibly switching mental gears. He started to speak, but caught himself. After a moment one side of his lips slanted upward in a humorless grimace. "It tells me to keep my day job."

"Textbook…moral…injury…" The words fell into a sudden silence. No one had noticed Mason's approach, but what caught the others' attention wasn't his proximity so much as his tone. The irritating buzz of arrogance was, if not absent, then greatly diminished. There was an awestruck quality in his soft-spoken words.

Rossi braced himself for another unpleasant confrontation, but a discreet gesture from Fletcher made him pause long enough to realize Mason wasn't being offensive. In fact, the little psychiatrist had entered his professional zone. A bona fide patient, a man embodying the syndrome he'd been investigating to the point of obsession had banished Mason's prickly attitude to the sidelines. He was fascinated. He edged closer.

"Struggle for precision…Loss of perspective…Inability to grasp one's individual reality…My… word," the diminutive doctor breathed. "This is perfect!" Hotch shifted, his discomfort palpable. Mason's eyes fairly glowed, leaving the drawing to fix on the patient. " _You're_ perfect…"

Tension simmered from Rossi and Fletcher. Both men were primed to step in if Aaron were attacked. Still, something in the little man's demeanor made them hold back.

Hotch turned vulnerable, dark eyes on Mason. Halfway between entreaty and glare, his gaze didn't waver. It was a good thirty seconds before Hieronymus felt Aaron's regard and blinked, seeing the patient rather than the theoretical subject. He pulled back, straightening his spine as he instinctively tried to seem taller.

"Don't you see it yourself, Mr. Hotchner? A scene that could be interpreted in so many ways…Where does the road lead? What's the mission of the driver traveling it? Is the forest threatening or simply majestic?" His small hand descended to touch the edge of Aaron's drawing. "And what you've given us is empty of emotion." His voice drifted into a low, speculative tone, talking to himself more than anyone present. "Yes… perfect…I can work him out of this. I'm sure of it!"

The last declaration was directed toward Fletcher. Mason accented it with a triumphant fist pump.

"He's not your patient. I'm in charge of his treatment." Fletcher's statement was intended to remind his colleague that his realm was the lab; it was meant to shield Hotch while still being diplomatic in deference to Hieronymus' ego. The last thing Fletcher wanted was to make Aaron the subject of a territorial squabble.

"But I can…"

"Doctors?" Hotch's baritone overrode them both. "I said I'd do anything that would get help for my son. That's all that matters."

In the ensuing silence, the two psychiatrists' eyes met and held. Mason's brows rose…a challenge as well as a query. Fletcher chewed his lip. Rossi held his breath.

"Alright." Fletcher turned to face his patient. "I'll take your wishes into consideration, Aaron. My associate and I need to have a discussion. Let's cut this session short and plan on meeting again in…" He craned to look at a calendar serving as a blotter covering his desktop. "…in two days' time. Okay? For everyone?"

There were no objections.

Rossi herded Hotch out, aware that both doctors were waiting for some privacy before engaging in a conversation he'd gladly give half the contents of his prized wine cellar to hear.


	50. Noble vs Nobel

The door closed.

Hotch and Rossi made their way down to the street in silence. It wasn't until they were walking to the car that Dave draped an arm across his Unit Chief's shoulders, giving him an affectionate jostle. Much as he had grave reservations about Dr. Mason, Rossi decided it was important to put a positive spin on things. He'd been raised as a man of faith and, lapsed Catholic or not, he still held a firm belief that attitude and outlook occupied a place alongside the power of prayer: they could, if not produce miracles, then at least lighten the load, and often make a difference in the outcome of a struggle.

"Cheer up, Aaron. You heard Hieronymus. He sounded pretty sure he could help you. He…"

"He hates me, Dave." Hotch's voice cut through his friend's despite its low, anguished tone.

Rossi caught himself before responding too quickly. Positivity aside, falsely cheerful responses weren't what Hotch needed. The older man's rose-tinted glasses wobbled a bit, but stayed in place. "He doesn't hate you. He doesn't even know you. He can't…"

"He hates me. On sight, he hated me."

The two men walked a few paces in silence, Dave giving some considered thought to his next words. He studied the ground passing beneath his feet as he spoke. "If that's what you think, Aaron, then it's going to make trusting Hieronymus difficult, if not impossible. And it's my understanding that trust in one's therapist is an essential ingredient. So…?"

"If it helps my son, I'll do whatever they want."

Rossi came to a sudden stop, gripping Hotch's arm just above the elbow, pulling him up short. "What's going on with you? You're versed enough in psychology to know there are no shortcuts. If it's Jack you're worried about, then you're gonna wanna do this right, Aaron. And that means step by step without sacrificing yourself on some noble altar in the name of fatherhood. That's not gonna help anyone. Might even do some harm."

Abashed, Hotch's head hung. Dave could read him well enough to know some additional turmoil was frothing and bubbling inside him. It was only a matter of time and opportunity before it burst forth. When Aaron tried to resume walking, Rossi wouldn't let him. His grip was firm, but his voice was gentle. "C'mon…what's eating at you? Something more happen with Jack?" A half-hearted shrug was the only reply. "Remember what Doc Fletcher said, Aaron. What you feel on your kid's behalf is probably a lot worse that what the kid himself feels." Hotch kept his head down, expression shielded from view. All Dave could see was a semi-tamed forest of cowlicks.

When another attempt to move on was thwarted by the older man's unyielding fingers locked around his bicep, Aaron gave a gusty exhale, realizing stoic silence would not suffice in this situation. At last, he forced the words out. "Jessica talked to me today."

Rossi didn't like his best friend's body language. The man was cringing in on himself like someone expecting punishment or at least harsh censure. _And that's Aaron all over these days._ "Okay. Good. Jessica talked to you. What'd she say?"

"Told me I need to talk about Haley, so Jack won't forget her. But I…" The baritone voice faded, replaced by anxious lip chewing.

"What? You don't agree with her?"

"No, it's not that. I…I just…I…" The grove of cowlicks trembled as Hotch gave up trying to explain something he couldn't quite fathom himself, resorting to a slight headshake in place of inadequate speech.

Mind clicking along in profiler mode, Rossi's eyes traveled over the younger man, gleaning clues along the way and deciding to try coming in at an oblique angle. "You're not comfortable talking to Jack about his mother? You think maybe it's better if he _doesn't_ remember so much?"

"What? No!" Hotch's head came up; Dave had achieved eye contact and silently congratulated himself on it. "I want him to remember her! I do. It's just…" The Unit Chief shuddered, tamping down the feeling of wings beating panic in his chest whenever he tried to speak of Haley. "It's just Jack remembers more than I thought. He remembers 'George, the bad guy.' And I…I…"

Hotch's eyes welled with a tragedy that sent chills through Rossi. _And if that's how I feel, poor Aaron must be petrified inside._ "Look, whatever your son knows or thinks he knows, there's no one else for him to ask. No one else was there."

"I know." Shame threaded its way through Hotch's voice, making it scratchy. "But I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't want to see his face when he finally finds out what kind of murderer his dad is."

"Then take control of the situation, Aaron. Steer the conversation. And you're caught up in your own mind, your own interpretation again!" Hotch's puzzled look brought a small, sad smile to Rossi's face. "Jessica didn't tell you to talk about Foyet. You're doing just what Fletcher warned you about: assigning your own emotions, your own dread, to Jack. There was so much more to Haley than the day she died. And we're talking about a kid here! Maybe Jessica meant your son needs what every child wants to hear."

Dave released Hotch's arm, sliding his hand around to the man's back and propelling him forward as they resumed their walk to the car. "And who better than you to remind Jack how much his mother loved him? Huh?"

A little of the tension eased in the muscles under Rossi's palm. He decided it was a small victory. No need to reopen the issue of giving a hostile, little man access to Aaron's psyche.

Not yet, anyway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The door closed.

Fletcher's upraised hand signaled to Mason that he wanted to be sure Hotch and Rossi were out of hearing before any words were spoken. The faint _snick_ of an outer office door and the ensuing silence were the cues for which he'd been waiting.

"He's _my_ patient." Fletcher fixed his diminutive colleague with a stern stare.

"Now is not a time to get territorial, Doctor!" Mason rose up on his toes; his effort to even the difference in their heights an automatic action. "You need me. You keep losing sight of the bigger picture here. If for no other reason, you need me to keep things in focus."

"Focus?" Fletcher's nostrils flared. "You mean focus as in zeroing in on a man's wounds and probing them without any regard to the pain it causes him? That kind of focus?"

"Look, I might not have patients the way you do, _Doctor_ , but I know Hotchner's type and I can…"

" _Type_!? You know his ' _type_?!'" Fletcher bit his lip to keep his real opinion of theoreticians who saw people as specimens from taking flight. This was still a respected colleague, albeit an unpopular one, and Mason still represented a fund of knowledge that might benefit Aaron.

"Yes, his _type_. Everyone's a type. That's something I've learned in more time in a lab than you've been in practice, so…"

"Doctor Mason!" Fletcher cut off what he knew would be a fruitless round of jabs and parries concerning the relative merits of theory versus practice. It was an age-old arena that he doubted would find a mutually acceptable resolution in his or Mason's time. "I respect your years of research and study. I'm appreciative of your willingness to use it to my patient's advantage. But there's a matter of pacing and finesse that comes into play when the subject at hand is a troubled, fragile man rather than a university student looking for some pocket cash for putting in time as a psych guinea pig." He took a deep breath. "Can we agree on that?"

Hieronymus puffed his already round cheeks out a little further, eyes squinting as he inspected Fletcher's words for any hidden traps or pitfalls, unaware that it made him look very much like the aforementioned, rotund, beady-eyed guinea pig. "I can agree that there are differences in our respective professional environments."

"Good. Then how about we call a truce and discuss treatment? I'll keep in mind that you're far better versed in Moral Injury Syndrome than I am, and you'll accept that my patient is more complex than either of us knows. Agent Hotchner has MIS, PTSD and another layer above and beyond what's already been quantified by psychiatry. He's been the plaything of some pretty nasty individuals when it comes to his mental and emotional health. Can we do that? Work together building upon that premise?"

Mason gave a slow, solemn nod, rapt interest beginning to glow in his eyes in a way that his colleague found reassuring. Fletcher began to feel he might have reached a sympathetic place in the little researcher, judging by the change in the man's expression. He had no idea that his description of his patient had upped Hotch's value as a superbly unique case study.

Hieronymus held his breath, just beginning to hear the words 'Nobel Prize' fluttering at the edge of possibility.


	51. Learning to Fly

"So, you wanna go somewhere? Get a bite?"

During the quiet drive home Rossi had been casting sidelong glances at Hotch, watching the cogs and gears turning in the man's troubled mind. There was no response to his invitation. "Hey! Aaron!"

"Huh?" Hotch stopped gazing out the passenger side window at whatever internal landscape had claimed him, blinking himself back to the present. "Sorry. What was that?"

"Food? Drink? You? Me?"

"Oh…uh…" He straightened up, checking his watch. "…thanks, but since we got out early, I should let Jessica know she doesn't need to take Jack tonight." In one smooth, practiced motion, he retrieved his phone from an inside jacket pocket, flipped it open, and pressed the appropriate speed dial.

While Aaron informed his son's aunt of the change in plans, Rossi continued surveillance of his friend. Indeed, observation of The Hotch in its natural environment seemed to have become his chief hobby, occupying a good deal of his time both at and away from the office. Dave thought he was beginning to see more of the rat's maze that had been twisted into Aaron's mind, but, as with a crime scene rife with clues, it was all circumstantial evidence and needed someone to put it all together. He hoped Fletcher was the right person for the task. He sincerely doubted Mason was.

Rossi was reminded of Morgan's anxiety when their Unit Chief had returned from his extended sick leave after being stabbed by George Foyet. Then, as now, it had been too easy to overthink and pick apart Hotch's every action, gesture, expression, word. Worry could transform friendly concern into a disabling force. Dave wanted to make sure he didn't step even one toe into that arena.

He kept quiet when Hotch asked if they could swing by Jessica's and pick up his son. As Rossi made the short detour and pulled to the curb, he didn't say that he thought Aaron should get his bearings before interacting with the boy. It was a balancing act between nudging Hotch to be careful, and, by doing so, creating damaging inroads into the man's confidence. _But kids notice stuff. Like a tremor in the hand…or a catch in the voice…or sadness. And that kid_ _ **really**_ _notices when Daddy's sad._

But as Jack burst from his aunt's front door, hopping down the steps in a headlong trajectory filled with youthful energy, there didn't seem to be any trepidation or reluctance about him. He settled into the back seat, grappling his jacket and backpack while fluttering a large sheet of paper in his grip. The ride back home was accomplished in meaningless queries about how the school day had been. Rossi couldn't tell if the upbeat atmosphere was genuine or sprang from Jack's effort to bolster his sad Dad. Aaron was a studious, interested parent, but there was still a dejected air about the man.

So when the trio reached the Hotchner abode, Dave invited himself in.

"Mind if I visit? Just for a minute?" _At least I'll be able to see how they are together for myself. Doc Fletcher's observation about the parent feeling an over-sized version of the child's pain might be something I'm guilty of, too, when it comes to Aaron._ Rossi cut the ignition, making it that much harder should Hotch wish to deny his request.

But the young father was still in a semi-distracted frame of mind. "Sure. Come on in," he mumbled as he disengaged his seatbelt and exited the car.

Once through the front door, Jack headed for the kitchen, snack-bound despite having eaten dinner at Jessica's. He shed his gear on the small table at which the Hotchner men usually ate, leaving his backpack on top of the large sheet of paper he'd been careful not to fold or wrinkle.

"What's that?" Aaron tilted his head, unable to decipher whatever was beneath the backpack.

"Oh. Nothing. Just some stuff from history." Hotch's son was far more interested in the refrigerator contents than in explaining a class project.

"Can I look?"

"Sure. Whatever." Jack emerged from his rummaging with an apple and a soft drink. "I got other stuff I gotta do for tomorrow. Science." He wrinkled his nose in criticism of his least favorite subject, snagged his backpack, and trotted off toward his room, evincing complete unconcern for granting access to the history project.

After the boy had disappeared, footsteps fading and bedroom door closing, Hotch stood staring down at the sheet of paper. Jack had scratched out his first abortive effort…the one that had prompted Jewel to take pity on him and open his eyes to her way of approaching art in a free, unfettered mode.

Aaron didn't know that. Even though it was crossed out, he peered at the excruciating, labored, torturous piece of work. The closer his examination, the heavier his heart.

Rossi glanced at the paper, then back at the younger man's face. Hotch's eyebrows were executing an involved choreography. Dave read concern, disbelief, anxiety…all ending in something deeply sorrowful as Aaron's eyes lifted to his, twin pools of brown tragedy.

"He's like me. He's like me, Dave. I know what I drew meant there was something wrong with me. I heard what Dr. Mason said. And now I know it's not just me. It's…it's…" His voice failed, strangled by the thick apprehension that he'd somehow crippled his child.

Rossi watched as Hotch seemed to lessen; to pull in on himself. Reflexively, Dave reached out and flipped the piece of paper over, wanting nothing more than to remove the catalyst that was causing his friend's transformation from upright to cringing. And…

…Rossi's gasp was involuntary; a sharp intake when he realized that _this_ was the real drawing… _this_ was the window into Jack's internal workings. "Aaron…" He couldn't take his eyes from the graceful, arcing lines. "…Aaron!...Look!"

With slow, painful trepidation Hotch returned his gaze to the paper that he considered a condemnation, a reflection of his influence on his son; his personal damnation. He blinked. Once. Twice. Again.

The moisture that had been lingering on the sidelines finally made its full appearance. Tears blazed a salty trail down Aaron's gaunt cheeks even as the corners of his lips quirked upward. There was one broken sob, but Rossi didn't pay it much mind.

When he looked at his friend he saw joy. An unexpected joy mixed with relief and release. The tears were harbingers. As usual, Hotch had been expecting the worst.

But this time he had been granted a reprieve. He bent closer to Jack's drawing, the chuckle of a man who'd been spared, who'd been granted sudden hope bubbling up. "He drew that? It's…it's…"

"It's pretty damn good, Aaron."

"It's not me. _He's_ not me."

Dave moved closer, too. He rested a hand on Hotch's back where the muscles were doing a trembling dance filled with too much emotion. "He _is_ you, Aaron. _This_ is you. You've just lost your way. Too many people have messed with you, but, even so… _this_ is what's underneath. This is what you've gifted your son."

Hotch closed his eyes and heaved a long overdue sigh. It felt as though a heavy stone had been lifted off his chest. He could breathe.

And he could see his son's underlying soul in a rendering composed of sweeping lines that made you want to spread your arms and fly.

Because even if flight wasn't possible, you could still feel it in the deepest part of you.

All you had to do was let it out.


	52. Separate Strategies

Fletcher leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath as he waited for his call to connect.

Two days had passed since he'd tangled with Mason and reached an uneasy truce about subjugating personal agendas in favor of his patient's welfare. Hotch and Rossi were due for another appointment and Fletcher was sure it wouldn't be the last. So, to that end…

"Hello. Yes, this is William Fletcher. _Dr._ William Fletcher. I wanted to request a medical extension for Agent Aaron Hotchner." The psychiatrist's voice was clinical, devoid of emotion. He didn't know why, but he was reluctant to let the FBI's Human Resources Department in on the anticipation he felt when it came to this particular patient. _Aaron's so damn private, maybe some of it's rubbing off on me. Or maybe I don't want to let on that this might be the first request of several. That man's got enough material inside him to base a career on._

The thought sent a shiver through him, like icicles sprouting along his spine.

Despite their conversation, he had a feeling Dr. Mason might be thinking along those very lines. He'd been pleased at what he'd read as genuine enthusiasm for Hotch's case in his little colleague's demeanor, but in retrospect, Fletcher wasn't sure if he'd seen the glow of someone committed to the Hippocratic Oath, or the gleam of greed in someone who'd just discovered a professional goldmine.

 _Well, however it goes, Aaron's_ _ **my**_ _patient. Ultimately, it's my responsibility to make sure the man is treated, not used. And yet…_

Fletcher's sigh was weary. He knew he was teetering on the blade of an ethical dilemma. Mason's desire to harness Hotch's damage and make him the stuff of psychiatric precedent was valid. If others could benefit, if information could be shared with an eye toward helping those who currently suffered in silence, then Fletcher wavered when it came to opposing the diminutive doctor.

 _It's just his personality. It's in direct conflict with both those agents. Neither Dave nor Aaron were at ease with Mason's attitude more than anything else..._

"Yes?" Fletcher pulled himself back to the issue at hand: getting Agent Hotchner additional appointments.

A bored, yet officious voice said another month could be granted, but the doctor presiding over the case would need to submit a written explanation within the next five days. Should he or she fail to do so, the extension would be automatically rescinded.

Fletcher nodded, scribbling a reminder to himself. "Thank you. I'll take care of it right away. Can I just email it to you, Ms….?"

"Ms. Stein, Doctor. And no, uh…" The sound of a keyboard being put to efficient use came in a quick burst. "…reports about Agent Hotchner need to be sent to the Director's office. Do you have his email?"

"Yeah…" The word was tinged with sudden trepidation. Fletcher caught himself and hurried to sound more like the clinical professional he'd strove to be when the call began. "I mean, yes. Yes, I've got his email address on file."

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Doctor?"

"No, thank you. That's everything."

Ms. Stein murmured a polite nothing and closed the connection. Fletcher didn't really hear her. He was pondering the implications of reports about Aaron being sent directly to, well…the Director. It wasn't standard procedure. It didn't bode well.

He tucked it away in a corner of his mind to worry about later. Right now he had to prepare for other patients, as well as another open-ended, late day session with Hotch. He found himself looking forward to having Rossi on hand. _If Mason needs handling, it'll be better coming from Dave than from me. No way he'll be able to accuse an FBI agent of being a credit-grabbing glory-hound._

 _I just hope things go more smoothly than last time for Aaron's sake._

Fletcher pulled out a file in preparation for his next patient and made a firm effort to put Agent Hotchner and little Dr. Mason from his mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hieronymus was on his own.

He'd begun browsing the information Fletcher had given him in preparation for their next meeting with Aaron Hotchner and had become enthralled. When the clinic's Research Department receptionist had buzzed him on his intercom to tell him two students had arrived to be interviewed as possible test subjects for a study on sleep deprivation and its role in anxiety disorders, Mason had snapped at her.

"Give them to someone else, Maggie! Give them to someone else or send them home. And don't bother me again!"

His peevish voice had made the poor woman wince: it had been audible to the students in question and had carried all the charm of a mosquito's whine. Hieronymus didn't know, and wouldn't have cared if he had. He was too deep in the subject of an FBI agent's tattered psyche to have room for things like courtesy or professionalism.

But what began with eager anticipation began to change as Mason read.

Fletcher hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said Agent Hotchner was suffering from multiple layers of trauma; some as yet unidentified.

With additional, unknown complexity thrown into the mix, it was beginning to look as though the man wasn't a perfect specimen of Moral Injury Syndrome after all. And that just wouldn't do. No, it wouldn't do at all. Hieronymus's small face twisted into the dissatisfied grimace one might associate with having eaten a bad clam that lingered on the palate. He began an internal dialogue, since he considered himself the best sounding board for his own genius.

 _This patient has too much backstory to make MIS the featured one. But he_ _ **does**_ _have MIS. He truly does. I'm really not interested in the rest of his baggage, but…_ Mason's features un-creased a little as he listened to his own advice. _…but he's not my patient, as that ingrate, Fletcher, took such pains to point out._ The little doctor's expression smoothed a bit more. _So why shouldn't I focus on the aspects of the case that are pertinent to my work, and let Fletcher wade through the rest of the man's murky workings to his heart's content?_

At last, a full smile graced Hieronymus's rosebud lips. _Yes, that's the perfect solution. I'll just push one facet of Agent Hotchner's damage into the light so I can examine it. And Fletcher can handle the rest._

Feeling good about his strategy, Mason found it much more enjoyable to leaf through Hotch's files.

Sometimes it was nice to know such bad things could happen to such tall, dark, handsome men.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack immersed himself in the morning activity that had become routine for days he knew Dad's evening would be spent with his special doctor.

Backpack, homework, lunch, overnight stuff for staying with Aunt Jess…and a small, secret smile every once in a while when he cast sidelong glances toward the refrigerator door.

His drawing from history class was taking up a large portion of it, fixed in place with magnets in the shape of various vegetables. His father hadn't said a word, but only items that ranked high in Daddy's estimation ever achieved display on the fridge.

Sure, there were other things in a hodge-podge of family memories. Some photos. A ribbon given for the highest score on a math test. An MVP soccer award. But all those were objective ratings; all the result of someone proclaiming Jack's performance to be 'the best.'

The drawing was different. It could only be judged in a _sub_ jective way. There was no chance for it to be 'best.' In fact, it was highly imperfect. Completely individual. Totally Jack.

And Daddy was proud of it, just the way it was. Jack knew because every so often he'd see his father glance at the refrigerator door with his own small, secret smile, too.

XXXXXXXXXX

That morning, Hotch's son hugged him.

It wasn't the fierce, little-boy hug given to a super-hero. It was different. Maybe older, more mature. Nonetheless, it filtered its way into Aaron's heart and warmed him every time he thought about it. It carried him through the day.

The Unit Chief felt calmer and more confident right up to the time of his appointment with Fletcher.

And Mason…the little man whose hate had been so palpable last time.


	53. A Vile Victory

"We need to record these sessions, Fletcher. I'd like you to persuade Agent Hotchner to accept that."

Hieronymus had made a point of arriving early. As soon as Fletcher's door opened, even before his last patient had taken his leave, Mason had stepped inside and was pressing his point home. "And it might be to everyone's advantage if you excluded that other agent from the proceedings." The little doctor's brows beetled. "He's clearly contributing to the tense atmosphere."

William Fletcher stood, gazing at his intrusive colleague, wondering if it would ever again be possible to attain an effortless sense of calm with which to greet Hotch. It almost made him nostalgic for those early, over-emotional times that had been fraught with Aaron's distrust and hostility. It took him a moment to mentally shift gears after having spent the last hour with a patient whose guilt complex over covering for his boss's extramarital affairs was becoming a serious issue of ulcer-producing proportions.

Fletcher closed his eyes and inhaled, counting to ten. "Dr. Mason, I'll be glad to ask for permission once again, but I hope you understand there's a difference between persuasion and bullying. I won't allow…"

"But I… _we_ … _we_ need that as corroboration, as verification!" The diminutive psychiatrist's voice scaled upward. "Without direct quotes and a solid source, I… _we_ can't…"

The outer office door opened.

"Here-RON-i-mouse! So good to see you again!" Rossi's jocular tone overrode Mason's, spewing false cheer and causing Mason to shudder with suppressed resentment. The senior agent beamed a great smile at all and sundry. "Hi, Doc. How ya doin'?" Rossi blazed into the room like a natural force, shielding a quiet, reticent Aaron by sheer force of presence.

Fletcher shook the hand Dave had extended. "I'm fine, thank you. You? And…?" He tried to read Hotch's carefully neutral expression.

"I'm great. And Aaron…?" Rossi caught the Unit Chief's eye, giving him a sardonic grin. They'd both heard Mason's treble voice from the hallway.

"I'm fine." Hotch's glance from beneath his brows connected with Hieronymus, noting the little man's sour expression. "And I'm still not going to agree to any kind of recording. I'm sorry."

"Why _NOT_?!" Mason sounded petulant.

Privately, Rossi thought the little man would have done well on the stage of a children's theatre production of 'Rumpelstiltskin.' _Gnome-ish and likely to act out when enraged._ _What was that last scene in the fairytale? Oh, yeah…Rumpie grabbed hold of one of his own legs and ripped himself in half out of pure frustration 'cause he didn't win his little game with the princess._

Dave's grin grew wider at the mental image. "Aaron doesn't owe you any explanations, Hieronymus. It's enough that he's made the decision. And don't forget…" Rossi raised one brow at the pad and pen on Fletcher's desk. "…there's always the old-fashioned way of keeping records."

Mason's eyes narrowed. His lips thinned. In fact, his whole visage took on the aspect of a dissatisfied prune. He knew Dave was making a subtle reference to the last session when he'd been banished to the outer hallway. He could see that this agent was one of those for whom acquisition of a doctorate didn't command automatic respect and obedience. _Before I can wrench Agent Hotchner into shape, I'm going to have to fight another battle. I'll have to outwit this self-appointed guardian. I can do that. Time to switch tactics._

Mason sucked in his cheeks and nodded, trying to achieve a look of martyred superiority. "Fine. Well. If that's how you want it…" He flipped his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "It's not the wisest course for a layman to make the rules, but… fine."

Rossi's grin never wavered. He enjoyed pushing people's buttons when they were so prominently displayed. _Little man. Big ego. Always assumes he's the smartest one in the room. Maybe in some ways that's true, but smart doesn't stand a chance against sly._

The unfortunate thing was…Rossi was right.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch's discomfort came from a number of different sources.

His resolve to do whatever it took to get to the point where Jack would be the beneficiary of Dr. Fletcher's expertise remained solid. However, he had to give credence to Dave's admonition that sacrificing himself wasn't the best way to go. There were no shortcuts in his present situation and, deep down, Aaron knew it. He dreaded plumbing his own depths where the man who murdered Foyet with his bare hands crouched in hiding. And his first impression of Mason hadn't changed. Hotch watched the little psychiatrist's beady eyes boring into him. _He hates me…yet he said he could help me…_

It was hard to tell where the dividing line was between sacrificing oneself and being brave enough to trust one's welfare to a stranger, especially one who came off as an unfriendly force.

Hotch had to push himself to take that first step.

"Dr. Mason, last time we were here you said you could help me." Aaron tried to ignore the air of smug victory that ghosted over the man's petite features. "How?"

"By changing your focus." Hieronymus shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked up onto his toes. It was a habit he would have abandoned had he known it made him resemble a penguin rather than an erudite professional. "That drawing you did last time; it told me all I need to know about the effect Moral Injury Syndrome is having on you."

Fletcher bit his lip, but still felt he had to interrupt. "Doctor, we touched on this last time: Aaron's issues are more complicated than a straight case of MIS. We need to…"

"We need to start _somewhere_ , Fletcher!" The whiplash bite of Mason's tone cut through the younger doctor's temporizing words, shocking him into momentary silence. "We can keep dancing around the fringes of this subject's issues for months!" Hieronymus's eyes narrowed. As so often happened in the midst of argument, his mind had fastened on additional ammunition. "But you don't have that luxury, do you? How long are they going to let you tiptoe around before they decide you're either not the psychiatrist for the job, or _he's_ no longer the agent for _his_ job?"

"That's enough." Rossi's voice brought silence. His wasn't the whiplash whine of Mason's. His was more a scantily-veiled, deadly-calm, don't-mess-with-me threat.

People paid attention.

"Aaron, why don't you get comfortable and think about what you want to discuss." Dave's flat gaze was trained on Mason. "The doctors and I need to step out for a minute."

"No, Dave. No secrets. Whatever you guys have to say…I should hear it, too." Hotch's dark, sad eyes glanced from man to man. "Besides, Dr. Mason has a point. I don't have much time left here, so…"

"You don't need to worry, Aaron. I've taken care of that." Fletcher had hoped to approach the subject at a different time and from a different angle, but if his patient was concerned, maybe the timing was right. "I asked for an extension on your sessions with me."

Hotch's brows rose. "And…?"

"I just need to submit some paperwork. It's taken care of."

In the pause that followed, Fletcher could almost hear the gears turning and the suspicion dripping, growing longer and more substantial like stalactites in a cave. "You sure it's that simple, Doc?"

The shadows in Aaron's eyes demanded an honest answer. Fletcher's shoulders dropped, his posture caving a little. "Of course they want a report, but there wasn't any argument about giving you more time with me." Now Rossi's gaze was trained on him, too. In a split second, the psychiatrist felt whatever trust he'd built with his patient slipping away. _And once again, Mason's at the root of it. If he'd kept his mouth shut, the subject of Aaron's tenure here wouldn't have come up._

Mind racing, Fletcher decided to make a clean breast of things. He tried hard not to let his own concern bleed over into his voice.

"Aaron, you're not an ordinary case. I've already told you that MIS and PTSD are part of what you're dealing with. We've already seen some of the effects of your childhood and of what Peter Lewis and your own employers have done to you. And we know you're a concerned father." The doctor took a deep breath. "When I asked for an extension, as I said, there was no problem, but…I was told to make the Director's office my point of contact. That's not usual, but like I said…you're not an ordinary case." Fletcher paused, trying to read the blank, still look that had descended over his patient's features. The psychiatrist cleared his throat, attempting to inject more confidence than he felt into his tone. "I won't hide things from you, Aaron. I want you to trust me. You said you didn't want any secrets, so I thought it would be best to get everything out on the table…to clear the air."

Mason had been an attentive, even avid, follower of the exchange. Once again, his agile mind latched onto an impromptu opportunity to twist things in his favor. He assumed a calm, confidential air. "Gentlemen, I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Hotchner? Alone?" The request was met with varying expressions; none of them indicative of approval. However, Mason was never one to give in easily. "In the interest of clearing the air…Isn't that what we're aiming for now?"

"I think you forgot the part about 'no secrets,' Hieronymus." Rossi resumed his dead-eyed gaze at the little man.

"Well, if I speak to Mr. Hotchner, I'm not exactly keeping secrets from him, _am I_!" The challenge ringing through Mason's words only served to set Dave's teeth on edge. The diminutive doctor recognized bristling when he saw it. He had a plan and he needed to take careful steps. He reigned himself in and regrouped. "Look, I'm only trying to help. As I was saying before we got sidetracked with all that extension business, we need to start _somewhere_. One of the most important initial steps in treating MIS is to let the subject know he's not being judged. Now…" Hieronymus puffed his chest outward, feeling the iron-clad logic of this latest strategy locking into place. "…I'm the only one here who isn't connected to Mr. Hotchner's work. I won't be reporting to anyone. I'll discuss him with Fletcher here, but the subject will still feel a degree of confidentiality with me that he won't have with either of you."

Mason could see doubt as his colleague inspected the proposal; suspicion as Rossi did the same. And looking at the senior agent gave Hieronymus another improvisational idea. _Rossi…that's an Italian name. Probably raised Roman Catholic…_ He tried to look as sincere and penitent as he imagined a priest would. "Think of it as confessing, if you like; a safe way to begin the process of dealing with MIS. I'm not Mr. Hotchner's official doctor…" _As you, Fletcher, keep reminding me…_ "…and I'll have no reason to cross over into either his work or his home life. Why should I?" Mason spread his small hands upward in a gesture at once reminiscent of someone displaying his unarmed status, and slightly beatific, which he hoped would strengthen the idea of sacrosanct privacy.

"I dunno…" Rossi rubbed his beard, narrowing his eyes. He kept hearing Hotch's first impression of Mason… _He hates me, Dave. Hates me!_ But he was in unfamiliar territory. He looked to Fletcher for his opinion.

The younger doctor was trying to set aside his anger that, once again, Mason had managed to bring an element of unease and disquiet into the appointment. "There's some truth to what you're saying, Doctor. But it's not our decision. Aaron? How do you feel about this?"

 _I'll do anything to move things along…for Jack's sake._ "Okay. I guess."

Rossi frowned. "You sure?" There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his friend's words.

Hotch shrugged, and committed himself to whatever course of action would untangle the knots inside him. "Couldn't hurt. I guess."

"Well…" Fletcher placed a gentle hand on his patient's shoulder. "You're in control, Aaron. Stop, if things get too much for you, or if you need a break." He patted the tense muscles beneath his palm. "We'll be in the outer office." Giving Mason a cautious nod, the doctor ushered Rossi toward the door. "I'll come back in half an hour…check on how things are going."

"You heard him, Hieronymus…we'll be right outside." Dave's words were ominous, but they rolled off Mason's back.

He'd won. _**Now**_ _who's banished to the hallway? Hmmmm?_

But he'd won much more than that small victory.

He waited for the door to close; waited a few beats to be sure Fletcher and Rossi weren't eavesdropping. He motioned to the couch and put some effort into making his smile more sympathetic than gloating. "Have a seat, Mr. Hotchner. We'll begin whenever you're ready."

Aaron quelled any reservations he had as he assumed his position on the couch, wondering what he was expected to say…where he was expected to begin. He didn't notice Mason insert his hand into his jacket pocket.

The pocket where his phone waited.

The phone that he knew so well he didn't need to look at it to set in on 'Record.'


	54. Timing is Everything

"I don't feel good about this, Doc."

Rossi fidgeted, glancing at his watch and then at Fletcher. The psychiatrist stood gazing out a window, eyes thoughtful and distant. "Doc. You with me?"

"Sorry. What?" Fletcher turned from the view he wasn't really seeing, focusing on Dave.

"I don't like your colleague in there alone with Hotch."

The doctor's sigh was filled with more concern than he cared to admit. "He's the standing expert in his field. And he's right. We have to start somewhere." He turned back toward the window. "Your friend's issues and damage go a lot deeper than I thought when he first came to me. I'm still wondering why he went from hostile and reluctant to more than willing to bare his soul." Fletcher shook his head before Rossi could speak the obvious. "And it's more than wanting to hurry the process so he can be better able to respond to his son's needs. It's just…I dunno…"

"Weird?"

The doctor's grimace held a trace of wry humor. "Not a word I like to use. Let's just say Aaron's complicated. And maybe if we start treating one thread at a time, we'll be closer to unraveling the whole mess." He shrugged. "Dr. Mason's not very likeable, but he is a professional. I don't think he'll do any harm."

"Hotch thinks Hieronymus hates him."

Fletcher's brows rose, his interest caught. "Did he say why?"

Rossi shook his head. "No, but his hunches are usually dead on."

"He didn't articulate anything specific?"

"No, but it's something Aaron felt immediately, and he was pretty insistent about it."

"Hmmm." The psychiatrist glanced toward the door to his inner office where Hotch and Mason were sequestered. He shook his head. "I think we both know that Aaron's feelings aren't the most reliable barometers of the situation right now."

"But you told him to trust his instincts."

Fletcher's eyes still lingered on his closed office door. After a moment's consideration he mentally pulled back from going down any dark paths spawned by a traumatized patient's emotions. "Aaron knows he can put an end to it; he can stop talking to Mason any time. I told him so. And I have to believe that even though Mason's lacking when it comes to people skills, at heart he's dedicated to progress in psychiatry…for the greater good. He's also the most knowledgeable when it comes to MIS. He might catch things that would slip past me. To do that, he needs to get Aaron talking. And I'm afraid that having the Director of the FBI come into the picture has probably thrown up a barrier…at least temporarily…between me and my patient. Dr. Mason doesn't have to contend with that."

The two men's eyes connected. Fletcher was the first to look away. Rossi frowned. "But you feel it too, right, Doc? He had an instant antipathy toward Hotch."

"Please understand, Dave. We try not to analyze each other in my line of work. It's a fast road to nowhere and does nothing but create animosity. We need our shields."

"I get it. Profilers do the same thing; kind of like taking a vow to stay out of each other's heads, but…" Rossi chewed on his lip for a moment before continuing. "…but we also know when to trespass; when to ignore the agreement and butt in. I do it all the time. We end up helping each other more than hurting."

"That's because you like each other to begin with. And that's because you work together as a team and have probably protected each other in the field. You're invested in each other's welfare. If you've been together under risky circumstances for a long time, guarding each other is almost reflexive." Fletcher stared in the direction of the closed door once more. "Dr. Mason hasn't experienced that type of support. At least, that's my private opinion."

"You're excusing him? For being kind of a jerk?"

"No. Just trying to imagine the challenges his physical aspect might have presented all his life. Sometimes our own baggage doesn't dovetail as well as we'd wish with what's dragging our patients down." The psychiatrist's smile was at once sad and sheepish. "Trying to understand all parties involved. Can't help it. It's what I do."

"Yeah…well…It's what Hieronymus does, or might do, that concerns me right now." Rossi checked his watch again.

The half hour Mason had been granted to have Hotch to himself couldn't pass quickly enough to suit Dave.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Aaron's eyes shifted. He was uncomfortable with Mason loitering about just beyond his field of vision.

The little doctor was behind and to one side of the couch where the Unit Chief lay. Hieronymus sat, leaning forward, one hand in his jacket pocket where it clutched his phone; his fingers able to detect the slight, warm vibration that indicated the device was recording.

But his subject wasn't talking.

Mason cleared his throat, hoping it would prompt Hotch to speak. The psychiatrist wasn't used to having to coax responses from patients. The students who peopled his research lab were eager to participate. They did as instructed, when instructed, knowing they'd be paid for their time. That academic process had left Hieronymus with expectations that couldn't be met in the current circumstances.

"Mr. Hotchner, don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Mason wrinkled his small nose in distaste. _Come on, agent. Don't be one of those clichéd "strong, silent" types._ One side of his mouth quirked upward in silent humor. _Or maybe with you it's "pretty, but dumb?"_

However, the doctor's small features blanked into a wary expression when, with a grunt, Aaron levered himself up. Swinging his legs around, he came to a sitting position, angling himself toward Hieronymus. The Glare wasn't quite there, but something little and rodent-like still squirmed deep in Mason's gut when confronted by Hotch's dark regard. The psychiatrist worked to disguise the nervous bobbing of his Adam's apple. He sat straighter, reminding himself that this specimen before him was damaged goods; and this wasn't anything like being on the playground surrounded by taller, fitter boys…nothing like walking fast and faster and almost running because a group of alpha males loitering on a corner you passed might be following you…nothing like walking into a room and feeling hemmed-in and outnumbered…nothing like feeling forgettable…invisible…

But Hieronymus was a fighter. He'd had to face down the Hotchners of the world all his life. He looked into the deep brown of the eyes dissecting him and ignored the sorrow…the humanity…that glowed from their depths.

"Something bothering you, Agent?"

"Yes." Aaron's voice matched his gaze; resonant with genuine feeling and a desire Mason couldn't define. The Unit Chief's exhale was long and slow; meant to tamp down emotion in favor of communication.

"Well?" Hieronymus raised his chin, hand still deep in his phone-filled pocket.

"Why do you dislike me so much?" Hotch had never told anyone…even Rossi…but it had puzzled him for years, ever since he'd graduated from law school. There was, if not instant animosity, then a challenge, every time he entered a new room, a new crowd, a new venue. He didn't see himself in the simple, ungarnished light of reality. Aaron's self-image was filtered through pain and abuse; a true instance of being perceived 'through a glass darkly.'

Dave could have explained things about handsome men, and the challenge they presented to plainer males, with humor and affection, but Hotch had never brought the issue up. It was too personal to reveal even to his best friend. Friends were a rare treasure in Hotch's world. He was leery of bringing attention to what he was sure must be a severe lack in his own composition. At one of his deepest levels, he believed that, if his deficiencies surfaced, he might lose even the few redoubtable comrades who seemed sworn to stand by him, like Rossi.

For his part, Mason curbed himself. He'd learned to compensate…even _over_ compensate… for his own lack: that of stature. But every time he thought he had this FBI agent labeled and stowed away in a nice, safe pigeonhole, the damnable man exhibited another unexpected facet.

First, there had been the agent's appearance. Who would have thought someone so physically blessed could be so vulnerable to manipulation and psychological subterfuge? Then, there had been the senior agent who had designated himself as protector to his damaged cohort. How many people in the world could claim someone so capable for their own security? How many could inspire such loyalty?

 _Pretty ones_ , Hieronymus fumed. _Pretty, pretty, tall, dark, handsome ones…that's who._

And then, there had been the drawing from the last session.

Who would have thought a man Mason envied as being designed to ascend to the pinnacles of power, to forge his way through the world trailed by admiration and achievement…who would have thought such a creature would reveal signs that his psyche was curled in on itself, crouching in a self-imposed cage and unable to take advantage of the marvelous gifts nature had bestowed on him?

It was almost comical. Hieronymus would have giggled if he hadn't been pinned by the patient's deep eyes.

"I…I don't dislike..."

"Yes, you do."

It was unnerving how Agent Hotchner didn't blink. It would have been easier to bear if the man's voice hadn't been so low and gentle. Here was the art of coaxing with which Mason had so little experience. Another reason for resentment.

"I don't hate you, Agent."

A flicker in the brown depths of the eyes that held him. "I didn't say hate. That's a much stronger word. One _you_ chose." The little psychiatrist held very still; some instinctual prompting telling him it was a way to escape notice, to stay safe.

Hotch's eyes narrowed and Hieronymus felt confronted by a predator. He was being psychologically hunted, and there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he tried a deflective maneuver. "This session is about _you_ , Mr. Hotchner. Shall we get back to…"

"You asked me what was bothering me. _You_ are. So let's explore that for a minute."

"Agent Hotchner, I don't think…"

"Yes, you do. In fact, you never _stop_ thinking…" Aaron had slipped into profiler mode; clues and tells catching his eye and assembling themselves into patterns. "That incessant, mental activity serves you well in your work, doesn't it, Dr. Mason? You analyze and quantify on a level that has dazzled your colleagues. But that same talent turns into something else outside your office. You mull, and then you brood, and then you obsess, and that's what your private life is all about, isn't it?"

Hieronymus stared, caught between dismay at being read and a too-late realization that, damaged or not, this patient was hitting psychological targets that Mason had thought hidden. Even if it was guesswork, it was impressive.

The little doctor just wished it would stop.

Hotch didn't want to be cruel, but he couldn't pull back now. A small, scared place in his mind whimpered that he was sorry, sorry, sorry, but it knew that if he didn't continue on, he'd be giving back control to someone who not only hated him, but now would want to enact vengeance for having his own dark places exhumed and dragged into the light.

"And I bet it's not your successes that you run over and over to the point of obsession. I bet it's the failures, the near misses, the imagined slights. Everything ends up on the bitter side of the scale for you…am I right, Doctor? So sometimes you enjoy venting all that pent up resentment, right? And sometimes you do it in the name of psychiatry…"

"STOP IT!" Little Dr. Mason had found his tongue. It had been glued to the roof of his mouth by a mixture of shock and horrified recognition of his own reflection peeking out at him from inside Hotch's words. Sheer survival instinct had freed it. "STOP IT RIGHT NOW! That's ENOUGH!"

The volume of Hieronymus's order _did_ stop Aaron. The psychiatrist quivered with barely suppressed rage. Perspiration slicked his brow and upper lip. Unthinking, Mason drew his hand from his pocket, using his sleeve to blot his face.

Too late, realizing he still clutched his phone.

Too late, seeing Aaron's eyes widen as he recognized that the device was recording.

But not too late to see the gentle, mournful quality that had held sway for the most part in those eyes harden into the full Hotch Glare.

And just in time, too, to see Fletcher and Rossi, alerted by the shouting, burst through the doorway.

Hieronymus had never felt quite so small and endangered as he did at that very moment.


	55. Something Good

There was a frozen moment during which anything might have happened; all possibilities hung in the balance.

Conceivable scenarios teetered on the edge of a blade. Anger. Confrontation. Violence. Betrayal. Damage. Distrust. Everything swirled in chaotic indecision.

Then, the drama solidified, options falling away to either side of the knife-edge when Hotch rose from his seat on the couch. He strode toward the door, shoving his way past Fletcher and Rossi, his voice a throaty growl. "I'm done here."

"No! Aaron, wait!" Torn, Fletcher cast a look of disgust toward Mason, one that was deeply apologetic toward Dave, and then bolted in pursuit of a patient he was sure needed help now more than ever.

Hotch foremost in his mind, Fletcher left the senior FBI agent and his cringing colleague behind.

Rossi was fine with that.

He pushed the door shut and leaned against it, blocking the one avenue of escape. He surveyed Mason through hooded eyes. His voice was as flat and deadly as his gaze. "Oh, dear. Oh, deary, deary, dear. Hieronymus, Hieronymus, look what you've gone and done now." The words fell like soft, heavy fruit; thudding into the silence, rotten with menace.

Mesmerized, the diminutive doctor watched, lips slack, as Rossi seemed to glide toward him. It was the movement of a predator; one of the same species as Aaron. It let Mason know that the threat hadn't left the room with Agent Hotchner. Now he was locked in with someone older, craftier, and also dangerously parental. The horrible luck of the last few minutes kept the psychiatrist spellbound with shock.

When Dave grabbed for his phone, however, Mason broke out of his thrall. He rolled out of his seat, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

"Give it to me, Hieronymus. Now."

"It's my personal property. You have no right to take it!" The little doctor's voice was shrill with tension and a dash of fear. This was all his repressed imaginings of being accosted by bigger, bolder, better men…by the bullies he thought he'd moved past. His voice squeaked. By contrast, Rossi's dark tone sounded even more ominous.

"I wouldn't talk about rights just now, if I were you, Hieronymus. But make no mistake: that thing is not leaving this room."

The FBI agent drew closer and closer. And closer still.

Mason's brain whirled, adrenalin coursing through him. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he edged around, placing the couch between him and the advancing agent. Such a childish maneuver. "Recording these sessions will only benefit your friend, Mr. Rossi."

Dave's lips pursed in a caricature of thoughtful pondering. "You don't say. And here, all along, I've been thinking that what would do my friend the _most_ good would be to talk with someone trustworthy to whom he could bare his soul. You know…someone who had no official connection to him. Someone who couldn't possibly hurt him…who'd have no reason to. Now, where did I come up with that idea?" He gave his head a remorseful shake, eyes still fixed on his nervous target. "Oh…yeah…that was you, wasn't it, Hieronymus. That was your oh-so-convincing argument for time alone with him, wasn't it…"

On the last word, Rossi feinted to the left, watching his prey skitter along the other side of the couch in the opposite direction. A small, but ever-widening grin did nothing to make the FBI agent look less intimidating. He swayed, watching Mason trying to guess which way he'd move next.

"Oh, Hieronymus, I'm going to enjoy this…"

XXXXXXXXXXX

Fletcher pelted down the hall and out the main office door, praying he'd find Hotch before the man disappeared into the twilit, city streets.

Turning a corner, his breath caught when he saw, in this maelstrom of mishaps, his wish had been granted. His patient was standing before the elevators, leaning his forehead against the cool, steel doors; softly thudding them with a fisted hand. Eyes closed. Body quivering. The very portrait of a defeated man.

Fletcher blessed whomever had left the building after Hotch and Rossi had arrived. It meant the elevator was on the ground floor or even at the basement level, giving him precious extra seconds to try and mend Mason's betrayal.

"Aaron! Aaron…" He softened his tone and made a quick decision to cross the lines of personal space that every therapist held in careful regard. "Aaron…" Fletcher came up behind the Unit Chief and took his shoulders in a gentle, but deceptively firm grip. "Aaron, please don't leave."

After a pause, when Hotch's voice came, it was stuffy with suppressed emotion. Not anger, though. It had the sepulchral tone of hopeless sorrow, of a man who'd allowed himself to believe rescue was near, only to have it snatched away in a sadistic twist of fate. Only this hadn't been fate. This had been a man Fletcher had endorsed and claimed as a colleague.

The psychiatrist was sure that, in Hotch's mind, the stench of Mason's duplicity now enveloped him as well.

"Leave me alone. Just… go away."

Fletcher took a deep breath. "No. I'm not going anywhere. And I hope you aren't either."

Aaron had let himself slide into self-pity because he thought it was safe. He hadn't expected either doctor to come after him. Rossi, yes. But Rossi was a friendly force. He could be weak in front of Rossi. And he'd _thought_ he could be weak in front of Fletcher, but now… His voice hardened. He tried to shake off the psychiatrist's hold.

"You can't stop me. Let. Go."

Fletcher held firm. If anything, his hands crept forward, cupping Hotch's shoulders in an even more secure grip. "Think of your son, Aaron. Think of your job. Hell, think of your entire future! You can't keep going with all the pain and damage that's keeping you company every day…keeping pace with you every day. You'll never outrun it on your own. You know that. You're smart and you're versed in psychology. You _know_ you need help."

Hotch turned. The move was so abrupt, so unanticipated that he tore free from Fletcher's hold. The doctor had been expecting him to bolt, not confront. And there was a change in Aaron's voice. He shed the weepy weakness like a skin, revealing molten anger beneath.

"You call that help!? You call it help when you tell me you're sending my evaluations straight to the Director's office, and then your partner tries to trick me into saying something damning? Recording me against my will?! What kind of…"

"Aaron, stop!" Fletcher went for the shoulders again, pressing his patient's back against the elevator doors. "I told you about the Director because I want you to know I'm not keeping secrets from you. And I had no idea Dr. Mason was going to do something so…so…"

"Unprofessional?" Hotch's anger hadn't abated. It forced its way out in ugly accusations. "Deceitful? Sleazy? Dishonest? Unethical?"

The psychiatrist secured his hold on Aaron's shoulders once again. He could hear the rumble of the approaching elevator car and knew his time was running out.

"Yes, Aaron. Yes, Dr. Mason's behavior was all those things. And I'm ashamed to be associated with him at this point. Please understand, he _is_ the leader in the field of MIS…" He could feel Hotch's muscles bunching beneath his fingers; a visceral protest to _anything_ in defense of Mason. "And I promise you he will _not_ be part of your sessions ever again."

The elevator rumbled to a stop. Before the doors at Hotch's back sighed open, Fletcher pulled the man away from the sliding steel panels, bringing them nearly nose to nose, eye to eye. "Don't leave now. Don't let someone like Dr. Mason chase you away. Please."

The elevator doors opened, paused. Fletcher felt hesitation as he held Aaron in place, but counted it a victory that there wasn't open rebellion; the FBI agent didn't bolt. As the doors slid closed, the doctor exhaled his relief. "So, you'll stay. Good."

"No. _Not_ good." Hotch sounded more controlled, but an undercurrent of rage still coursed through his words. "There's nothing _good_ about any of this."

Before the psychiatrist could respond, they heard a door open and close; footsteps approached at a jaunty pace, no doubt clad in fine, Italian leather. When Rossi turned the corner and saw them, he beamed a wide, self-satisfied grin. He also brandished a cell phone like a prized trophy.

Walking up to the two men who were clearly in the middle of something tense and sincere, but whose eyes were now fixed on him, Dave reached down, took Hotch's hand, and dropped the phone into its palm.

"There ya go, Aaron. Problem solved."

The Unit Chief gazed at the offending device. Slowly, deliberately, he met Fletcher's eyes, still mere inches away. Hotch hefted the phone as though testing its weight.

"Now _this…this_ is good."


	56. Lonely Angels

Fletcher let Hotch have a moment to enjoy the purloined phone.

The elevator doors closed. The doctor felt a little thrill of victory that his patient was still on this side of them. He was also aware that, just the _other_ side of the steel panels, the empty car waited. It was unlikely anyone would call for it in the after-hours building. All it would take was the press of a button and Hotch could still slip away, more damaged than he'd arrived.

That was something Fletcher hoped would never happen to any of his patients, but particularly this man he felt a personal responsibility for, since he'd introduced him to the author of that further damage.

"Aaron, this will never happen again. Give me another chance. Don't leave."

Neck bent, sad gaze fixed on the phone in his hand, Hotch gave his head a slow shake.

"I can't."

Rossi's wry grimace said he disagreed. "Oh, c'mon, Aaron. Doc here didn't…"

The Unit Chief's head lifted from his regard of the cell. "No, you don't understand. I can't stay _now_ …" He shifted his attention to Fletcher. "…but I'll come back. I just can't stay here with that lying, little…" He brought himself up short, realizing he might sound like a boy on the playground, badmouthing his classroom nemesis. "I don't want to stay here with Mason in the building."

"Sure…sure…" The psychiatrist nodded and backed off a step, returning the sanctity of his personal space to Hotch. He would have liked to drag his patient back to his office and find some way to repair at least a little of the injury that had been done to his trust, but Fletcher sensed that the promise to return was as good a prize as he could expect to get out of the whole mess. Letting Aaron go for now was a little risky, but badgering him into staying would trample his trust even more.

The doctor nodded and took a deep breath. "Alright. Can you come tomorrow?" He saw the shadowed look in Hotch's eyes. "It'll just be me. I promise. And we'll get right down to work." His gaze locked on Aaron's. "And I also promise we'll get you to a place where you can see there's light ahead. It'll take time, but you _will_ feel better. Eventually."

The Unit Chief nodded, lips pressing into a thin line for a moment. "Yeah. And time's not a problem as long as you keep the Director in the loop. Great."

Rossi's sigh interrupted the two men's exchange. "The Director's interest isn't necessarily bad, Aaron. You're doing that thing you do again…seeing everything about yourself in a bad light." He gave the younger man's side a nudge with his elbow. "Let's get out of here and come back tomorrow, okay?"

Hotch's own sigh was shallow and tired. He looked at Mason's phone once more, then slipped it into his pocket. "I wanna walk for a while. I can find my own way home." A note of resignation entered his tone. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"Aaron? You sure? We could maybe go for a drink. C'mon…wha'd'ya say?"

"No." Dark eyes flicked up, then down; too much in them to make sharing, even with a best friend, easy. "Thanks, Dave, but…I'll see you tomorrow. G'night."

Hotch pushed the elevator button, as glad that the car was immediately available as Fletcher had been regretful of its handy proximity. He stepped inside, pressed for the ground floor and gave the two men watching him a wan facsimile of a smile. It was a mere lip-twitch.

The door slid shut.

"Call me if you need anything." Rossi's voice carried through the steel panels; a last bid to keep his buddy company.

There was a muffled response that might have been acknowledgment, but nothing more.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Fletcher and Rossi lingered by the elevator for a few minutes, both listening until the car stopped moving and they knew Hotch was truly gone.

The doctor glanced at the agent. "You think he'll be okay?"

Dave bobbed his head in a not-quite-nod, more of a conditional I-hope-so gesture. "Yeah. But you better be sure Hieronymus doesn't show up again."

Fletcher's head snapped up. He gave Rossi a sharp look. "Dr. Mason's not the type to take this quietly. How come I don't hear anything? Where is he?" He tilted his head, regard turning wary. "Dave, what did you do to him?"

Rossi's slow smirk did nothing to reassure or enlighten the psychiatrist. Nor did his casual shrug. "I neutralized him." Something like dread played across Fletcher's features. "Don't worry, Doc. He's fine." Dave returned his attention to the closed, blank elevator doors. "I'm more worried about Hotch."

The psychiatrist debated insisting on knowing more about his colleague's fate, but Rossi's lack of concern told him there probably wasn't any need to mount some kind of rescue operation. _Besides, Mason brought it on himself…whatever_ _ **it**_ _is…_ He pushed the little researcher to the back of his mind, finding he much preferred discussing Aaron anyway.

Fletcher puffed out a small, deprecating breath, shaking his head at his own words. "I just called Dr. Mason a 'type' and the other day I was taking him to task for doing the same thing to your friend: calling him a 'type.'"

Rossi sniffed. "People _are_ types. My whole job is based on the assumption that they are; that they and their behavior can be predicted and quantified."

"Hmmm…That's true. Maybe I was being hard on Dr. Mason. He can rub me the wrong way more than I'd like to admit."

Dave smiled. "Or maybe you just like Aaron more than you know. He has a tendency to inspire protectiveness. There's always been something vulnerable and decent and _worth_ protecting about the guy. People go to bat for him."

"That might be what your Director's doing. But I couldn't say for sure."

A few beats of silence fell before Rossi spoke again. "So, if it's okay to say people are 'types,' then what 'type' do you think Aaron is, Doc?"

A longer pause ensued as Fletcher considered the question and how much he felt comfortable discussing. At last, his lips traced a small, rueful smile. "I've researched him, and I'm guessing you know him more thoroughly than anyone else living. So…Aaron's 'type.'" The psychiatrist's shoulders relaxed; his eyes took on a misty look.

"Don't laugh, but he's what I call, in my own, private, unprofessional thoughts that I never put down on paper…he's what I call a Lonely Angel."

There was no laughter, but Rossi's brows rose; questioning, not criticizing. The doctor saw a receptive listener. He tried to find the words to explain something he'd never shared before.

"A Lonely Angel is someone whose small kindnesses and thoughtfulness for others is largely concealed. He hides his gentility. Maybe because he knows it makes him vulnerable. It can hurt him. A Lonely Angel usually doesn't understand why pain and torment have to exist in the world at all. He expends all his energy fighting them. He keeps his own sorrows to himself. Doesn't understand either how being brave and silent and compassionate can hurt him." Fletcher turned a mournful smile on his companion. "He believes the world can be fixed…can be made right. I like to help Lonely Angels."

Rossi nodded. "He's a Damaged Angel, too."

"Yeah." Fletcher sighed. "They usually are."


	57. Phone Fun

A thoughtful moment passed while Rossi and Fletcher contemplated the unenviable state of Lonely Angels among us.

Then, the psychiatrist released the frustrations of the day in a long, gusty exhale. He straightened his posture and looked at Dave, noting the return of the slow smirk to the FBI agent's lips. "Want to tell me what you did to Dr. Mason now?"

Rossi gave a one-shouldered shrug. Hands resting lightly in his trouser pockets, he turned on one elegant, Italian heel and sauntered down the hallway toward the doctor's office. "I'll go ya one better, Doc. I'll show ya."

There was a distinct Long Island lilt to the man's speech; something that made the psychiatrist think of cement boots and firearm-filled violin cases. He shook his head. _Been watching too many old movies._

Nonetheless, as Rossi strolled away, Fletcher allowed himself a moment of slump-shouldered defeat. There was a conspiratorial air of mischief about Dave. _And Dr. Mason doesn't take to mischief well…_ He followed the agent even as strategies of reconciliation for whatever had been done whirled through his mind. After all, Mason was a respected colleague whose knowledge still might benefit Hotch… _So long as Aaron never has to set eyes on him again…_

As they approached his office, Fletcher's heart sank at the muffled sounds of rapping and squealing barely audible through the thickness of walls and two doors. As they entered the outer waiting area, the squeals resolved themselves into angry, shrewish threats. The voice producing them was slightly hoarse from prolonged exertion. Dave glanced over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob to the inner office, grin growing sly and spilling across his features like an unstoppable elixir of gloat.

It did nothing to settle the building turmoil in Fletcher's stomach.

The door swung open. "Here ya go, Doc."

Rossi waited for the doctor to precede him. Fletcher did so, eyes scanning the interior and coming up empty. No Mason. The noises had stopped at the sound of Dave's voice. A split second later they resumed in a flurry of fury as tiny fists battered at…

 _Oh, God, no. Oh, Dave. Tell me you didn't…_

Fletcher made haste to the side of the office where the credenza lined one wall. The beverages he kept stored in the main compartment were now in a sedate line atop the counter. So was the removable shelving. He wouldn't have thought a person could fit inside the emptied space, but… _Dr. Mason_ _ **is**_ _on the small side…_

The door was braced shut; wedged tight with an upended footstool that the psychiatrist kept in a corner for young patients whose feet couldn't quite reach the floor when they were ensconced in one of his chairs. He pried the thing loose, feeling the force Rossi must have used in jamming the stool against the cabinet. He slid back the door.

Out spilled a red-faced, shrill version of the man who stood at the center of the study of moral injury. Beady eyes fastened like bullets on Dave's insouciant presence, lounging against the doorjamb with an expression of immense enjoyment on his face. Hieronymus struggled to his feet.

"I'll have you arrested for assault! I'll report you to…to whatever passes for an ethics committee in your FBI! I'll…I'll bring a lawsuit against you that'll…"

"That'll…what…?" Rossi's level tone held so much more force than Mason's treble squeal forced through a throat raw from shouting his indignation.

The little man quieted, panting and glaring. As furious as he was, Hieronymus was intelligent, with a mind superior to most. His brain was running full tilt, fueled by anger, but also an animal wariness; the caution of a smaller creature cornered by an adversary whose defenses were unknown, but, judging by that adversary's easy attitude, might be formidable. Mason's professional acumen told him the lazy grin stretching Rossi's lips was at odds with the flat, calculating shadows in the agent's eyes.

There was no humor there. There was contempt. And disgust. And a warning.

Fletcher could almost feel the electricity arcing between the two men. He thought keeping out of their exchange might be prudent. Besides, he didn't condone either's actions. Not the clandestine recording, nor imprisonment in his credenza. If he needed to step between them, he would. But for now, the younger doctor observed…and tried not to draw any attention to himself.

Rossi's mirthless smile grew even more so. "Before you start harboring any delusions of having been wronged, Here-on-a-mouse…before you indulge in any fantasies about having all your accusations validated...you might consider a few things, Here-on-a-mouse."

Dave saw a wavering in the little psychiatrist's demeanor. _He knows where I'm going. He understands bluster and ranting won't work here._ Privately, Rossi gave Mason a few points for leaping ahead despite his flustered state. Still, there was no lightening of the FBI agent's tone.

"You might consider how recording a patient notwithstanding his express request _not_ to be recorded would hang with the ethics committee of the American Medical Association." Rossi rubbed his beard, squinting at the ceiling in a faux demonstration of pondering the consequences of such. "Seems to me there might be some question about whether someone who does that should have his license revoked. Seems to me something like that could cast a man's entire reputation to the dogs…" He leveled his gaze, drilling into Mason's outraged eyes with his own unblinking stare. "Seems to me. But what do I know, right?"

Every aspect of Dave's delivery told the little doctor the exact opposite was true. This FBI agent knew exactly what penalties could be enacted. And likely knew, too, just how to get the ball rolling.

"So, Here-on-a-mouse, I'd think twice before making any threats if I were you… _capisce_?" Menace dripped from Rossi's voice. "And I wouldn't think at all about ever invading anyone's privacy in the nasty, dishonest way you did, _ever_ again. Just a friendly suggestion."

Mason knew when the odds were against him. It was something he'd learned to recognize early in life. He fumed, pressing his lips into a sour line as he stalled for time, straightening his clothes, patting himself back into order, checking his pockets to make sure he hadn't lost his keys or wallet during the unsavory moment when Rossi had inserted him into the credenza. His eyes lit on Fletcher.

"What I did was for the benefit of your patient, Fletcher. You need to learn that a man as unbalanced as Agent Hotchner shouldn't be the one calling the shots on his own therapy. He shouldn't have a say in what techniques will be best, nor should he be turning sessions into a community affair." He wrinkled his tiny nose in Dave's direction. "In future, you need to…"

"You're right, Doctor." Fletcher interrupted, hoping to circumvent further argument between his colleague and the agent. He could see Rossi's smolder fanning hotter with each of Mason's words. "There are too many people here. It _did_ upset my patient. From now on, it'll just be me, Mr. Hotchner, and…anyone Mr. Hotchner feels comfortable inviting."

In the pregnant pause that followed, Fletcher could feel Rossi swelling with triumph. He could also feel Mason nearly effervescing with this further indignity. The little doctor took refuge in making a show of retrieving his car keys from a pocket. He gave Fletcher a glare as he stepped past him.

"You may think you're doing the right thing, Fletcher, but time will show you just how big an error this is." He stalked by Dave, halting a safe few feet away and extending his arm full length, palm upwards. "My phone, Mr. Rossi. If you please."

"Oh, that. Sorry, Here-on-a-mouse…" The agent's expression said he was anything but sorry. "…no can do." He savored Mason's look of suspicion spiced with disbelief.

"I'm asking for my phone. Give…me…my…phone."

"Don't have it. Sorry."

Mason cast a frustrated glance at Fletcher. He could tell no help would be coming from that direction. "I need my phone. It has my contacts, business associates, schedule…"

"It's also got a recording of Hotch, Here-on-a-mouse. So, I figured _that_ part at least rightfully belongs to him." Dave's grin was growing so wide he face was in danger of being eclipsed. "So I gave it to him. Maybe…if you apologize and ask him _real_ nice…maybe he'll give it back. Maybe."

Features screwed into a rictus of impotent rage, Mason flounced to the door. He turned at the threshold, hoping to deliver a last, scathing remark that he could rerun later as he tried to believe he'd won this battle.

The genuine regret in Fletcher's eyes stopped him. But only for a moment.

"This isn't over, Mr. Rossi. Not by a long shot. As for you, Fletcher…mistake. Big mistake."

Mason left, stomping all the way in a manner he thought would demonstrate his determination to carry his rage forward.

He would have been mortified to hear Dave, eyes rolled skyward in beatific sarcasm, say, "Ahhhh…the pitter-patter of tiny feet…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch wandered the streets.

Ordinarily, he would have called Jessica and told her she didn't need to keep Jack overnight, since his appointment had been cut short. But he needed this time alone. And he'd forgotten how soothing a good, long walk could be.

His phone chimed at him a couple of times, but there was nothing urgent. When he saw Rossi had texted him, offering to pick him up, wherever he was, he replied that he was fine and Dave didn't need to bother. He'd call a cab when he felt like going home.

Right now, he needed to touch the sore spots inside and see how much they really hurt when no one was around to bear witness to his pain, or to offer solace that would blunt it. He needed to know… _How damaged am I?_

Paying no attention to where his feet led him, he found he'd taken a long, circuitous route to the small park where Fletcher had brought him on his first visit. It was nearly deserted. A scattering of bedtime dog-walkers bent on making sure they didn't wake up to a damp carpet. One or two teenaged couples who couldn't find any place more private sat entwined on isolated benches.

Hotch mused that if this were Central Park in New York City, he wouldn't feel safe entering it alone at night. As it was, this was a much smaller area, lit by well-spaced streetlamps. It felt more restful then secretive. He found a bench facing the small pond and settled in, gazing at the softly-lit landscape.

He was on the verge of relaxing when his jacket pocket vibrated.

Mason's phone. Still set for silence.

Bitter anger began to boil to the surface. Hotch felt a surge of acid in his stomach. He fished the cell out and considered answering it. Then decided against it. He suspected it could be the diminutive psychiatrist himself, exercising some ploy to get his phone back.

Aaron had no intention of ever communicating with the man again. He returned the device to his pocket, but couldn't dismiss it, or the betrayal it represented, from his mind.

 _Well, so much for finding a respite from this mess._ Whatever fragile, inner peace the long walk had brought him had been burned away.

Hotch sighed. He pulled out his own phone and pressed the speed dial. Number one.

"Hey, Dave. I'm sorry, but…I _could_ use a ride home. D'you mind?"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Forty five minutes later, Rossi dropped Hotch at his door.

"Can I come in? We could talk about what happened today."

The Unit Chief shook his head. "I really appreciate all you're doing for me, Dave, but I'm tired. And we have to go back to Fletcher's tomorrow, so…"

"So you need a break from all this, and you don't need to rehash your encounter with Dr. Rumpelstiltskin." Hotch gave his friend a quizzical look. He really was too weary to ferret out hidden meanings and sly jabs at the moment. "Mason. I'm talking about little Hieronymus."

"Oh." Aaron blinked. "Oh, yeah…that reminds me." He dug about in his pocket. "I don't want this anymore. And I guess we really should return it." He held out Mason's phone.

Rossi tilted his head, extending a hand to receive the device. "Did you erase the recording he made?"

A slow head shake. "No. Whatever's on there, it'd probably do Mason more harm than me. I kind of lit into him. Can you take care of it? Please? I don't want anything to do with him ever again."

Hotch was too drained. He didn't know why Dave's eyes lit with interest. Nor why he trained a wicked, one-sided grin on the cell before setting it on the dashboard before him.

"Sure, Aaron. Get some rest. See ya tomorrow. And don't worry about a thing. I'll be glad to make sure this gets back to Hieronymus."

"Thanks, Dave. Night…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A short time later, despite the grievances of the day, and a Jack-less house, Hotch was lying in bed, tossing and turning in a fitful doze.

Rossi, however, was in his element.

Drink in hand. Feet up. Mudgie offering affectionate, nonjudgmental companionship as his master listened to Aaron tear into Mason in a way that exposed so many raw edges and secret buttons waiting to be pushed, that the agent almost felt sorry for the little doctor.

Almost.

He freshened his drink and played the recording for the third time, smiling as Aaron went all alpha on his adversary. He ruffled his dog's ears.

"So, Mudge…think we oughta turn Garcia loose on this? Maybe make a copy of our own? Just in case?" A responsive whuffle and a tail thump broadened Dave's grin.

"Yeah, me, too. But let's keep Aaron and the Doc out of it, okay? This'll be strictly between me and little Here-on-a-mouse. Yeah…"


	58. Ringtone

Another night at Aunt Jess's place.

Jack had enjoyed all the stories about his mom that Jessica seemed determined to communicate. But they weren't what he'd hoped to hear. When he retired for the night, visions of a younger Mommy getting into all kinds of scrapes and having all kinds of adventures and then losing her heart to Daddy, danced through his head the way he imagined sugarplums from that old Christmas story were supposed to.

But he didn't want sugar.

Jack wanted bleak, sour honesty, even though he was sure adults wouldn't give him that. They would censor and soften and, well…sugarcoat. Sugar everywhere. Sugar again. Sugar always.

He sighed as he made up his mind to talk to Dad once more. The last time his father hadn't been dishonest, but Jack could sense that a lot had been left out. So this time, if Dad did that protective thing and didn't give satisfactory answers, then there was always Mr. Rossi. If anyone knew what had really happened to his father and his mother, it would be Mr. Rossi.

Jack closed his eyes and drifted off. As the night wore on, he dreamt of sugar in drifts that covered everything with its cloying sweetness; drifts so deep that it was impossible to move through it. Impossible to make any headway.

But he kept trying.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch called his son first thing the next morning.

The sounds of bustle and breakfast in the background were a comforting soundtrack of normal domesticity. The Unit Chief wished he were there to be part of it instead of forcing down tasteless toast and diesel-strength coffee after a restless night.

"Hey, Buddy. Everything okay over there?"

The pause before Jack answered was a beat too long. Aaron's profiler's ears perked up, and then his father's ears twitched forward with painful intensity, too. "Yeah, sure. Just getting' ready for school."

"You sure everything's okay? Anything you want to talk about?"

"Y-e-a-h…"

Hotch heard Jessica's voice calling from a short distance away, telling his son that it was time to go or he'd be late for school and she'd be late for work. It made what Aaron had to say next even more difficult. "Buddy, I have another appointment tonight."

Pause. Unpleasant pause. Too long pause. "Buddy?"

Jack's voice, slightly muffled, as though he'd turned away from the phone. "Aunt Jess? Can I stay over again tonight?" Footsteps and scrambling, clicking sounds. Then, Jessica came on the line.

"Aaron? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. How are you guys doing over there? Everything alright?"

"Of course." The words carried a subtext Hotch read with ease: _I can handle raising my nephew just as well as you can. Maybe better._ "And Jack can stay as long as he wants. You know that." Her voice lowered to a more private register. "I talked about Haley a lot…you know…growing up and meeting you. I think the next step is for you to continue the story, Aaron. Start with how you met her and then just keep going. It'll be good for him."

Hotch could feel his heart speeding at the thought of what was at the end of Haley's story. _A murderer. The most bestial kind. Bare-handed and dripping in blood and glad of it._ He shivered. _Hi, Jack…this is what's inside your father…_ "I'll do my best, but…but I…"

"Aaron, it's not that hard. Just talk!" Time pressured Jessica to cut to the chase. School and work awaited. Despite her rush, a spark of inspiration touched her. "Maybe you and I should talk first. Alone. Maybe that'll help."

Hotch didn't know what to say. He groped for a response, but there was no need.

"Jack and I are fine, Aaron. We'll talk later." Jessica's voice faded, her head already turning away from the phone. "You be safe at work today. Buh-bye."

The Unit Chief blinked at the sudden disconnect. He was glad of it.

He didn't feel quite in control of himself when it came to this discussion, and he hadn't wanted to blurt out that he felt safer doing a hazardous job than facing off with men who wanted to peek into his brain and tweak it.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The first thing Rossi did when he strolled into work was to glance up at the corner office; Hotch's domain.

Reassured that his friend was at his desk, Dave did an about face, exiting the BAU.

The second thing Rossi did was head down to IT and Garcia's lair.

He found her deep in a designer coffee mounded with a pink whipped topping and glittering red sprinkles. Her cream-smeared mouth quivered in surprise when the team's senior agent walked through her door flashing an impish smile that had more of trouble than humor about it.

"Garcia, can you do me a favor? Well…" The grin grew a trifle more mischievous. "…actually can you do me a _couple_ of favors?"

"Uh, sure! Absolutely!" She licked the sparkling, pink foam from her lips, beginning to feel an electrical charge in the small room's atmosphere. Rossi was up to something.

"One of the favors is that what I'm asking…what we do here…is kept in complete confidence..." His brows beetled, conveying the gravity of the situation. "…especially from Hotch."

"Yes, of course, my Italian Masterpiece!"

He extended a hand toward her, proffering a cell phone. Penelope pushed her lime green frames higher on her nose and peered at the object in her teammate's hand. "It's a phone!" The technical analyst could be excused for speaking the obvious; she hadn't imbibed nearly enough caffeine and sugar to reach her optimum functionality.

"Which must be returned to me intact. It's what's on it that I'd like you to copy and maybe perform a little of your special hocus-pocus on…?" Dave raised one eyebrow in a suggestive arch.

Garcia leaned forward, large, limpid eyes focused on the cell that was clearly more than it appeared. "My magic wand is at your disposal, O Roman Gladiator…tell me more…"

Rossi did.

XXXXXXXXXXX

At the end of the day, Hotch tapped on Dave's door and leaned over the threshold.

"We doing the usual this evening?" The two men had fallen into a routine on days that required a visit to Dr. Fletcher. They'd been caravanning to Aaron's place, leaving his car and traveling together in Rossi's BMW. Dave had thought it a prudent arrangement in case the younger man emerged from the appointment too distraught to drive, or simply in need of companionship.

Rossi glanced up. "Ah…no. I need to run an errand beforehand. In fact…" He shot his cuff, frowning at his Rolex. "…I should probably get going right now."

Hotch was surprised at the momentary jolt in his heart. He'd come to rely on his best friend's presence; a psychological security blanket. Dave began tidying his desk, a daily ritual that was his own brand of security blanket. He noticed the Unit Chief's expression and took pity on the man.

"Don't worry, Aaron. I'll meet you at the Doc's. Besides, you asked me to take care of something."

"Take care of what?"

Rossi ducked his head, hiding the emergence of a truly sinister grin. "You asked me to return Hieronymus's phone to him. Figured I'd kill two birds with one stone: give him back his phone and make sure he won't show up at your appointment." He mastered the grin and turned deceptively innocent eyes on Hotch. "That's okay, isn't it?"

"Sure. I mean, thank you." Aaron hesitated in the doorway and Dave's smile was genuine this time.

"Go to Fletcher's. Wait in your car. I'll be right behind you." His grin broadened. "Give Jack a call while you're waiting. He'll like that."

"Yeah. Okay." Hotch turned away. "Thanks again." It sounded a bit absent-minded. Aaron didn't want to bring up the feeling he had that talking to his son was becoming a stumbling block once again.

It was turning into a race between being sorted out by a psychiatrist, and making a full confession to the blood he could still sometimes feel dripping from his hands.

XXXXXXXXXXX

After Hotch left, Rossi sprinted down to IT to find Garcia.

Anticipating a meeting with Mason and being able to let his inner gangster off the leash put a bounce in his step. So he was brought up short when he found the tech analyst huddled in her chair, eyes damp with sorrow, sobs barely below the surface, as she pushed herself to respond to requests for data from various DOJ departments.

"Kitten?" Dave's own eyes filled with compassion. "What's wrong?"

Lip trembling, Garcia looked up from where she sat. "Who is he? Who hurt My Liege?"

"Hotch's fine! He's fine."

"No…NO!…" earrings and hair accessories tinkled and chimed as Penelope gave her head an emphatic shake. "Our White Knight wouldn't lash out like _that_ …" She jutted her chin at the unobtrusive, little black phone nestled among a grouping of troll dolls who seemed to be standing guard over it. "…unless someone really, really hurt him! He wouldn't! He just wouldn't…" She trailed off into disconsolate sniffling.

Rossi stood back and rubbed his beard, taking a moment to consider the best approach. He came in soft and low. "Look, this is why I'm relying on your complete discretion, Penelope. You're right. Hotch can be hurt. But he knows how to defend himself and…and…it's like boys getting into a fight in the schoolyard, right? It sounds bad, but at the end of the day everyone walks away. So, he's fine. Believe me." She blinked at him in a watery way. "The best way to help Hotch is to do what I asked you to… Did you find a way? To do what I asked?" Dave tried to temper the note of avid eagerness in his voice.

Garcia dashed a few beads of moisture from her lashes, readjusting her glasses so she could give her teammate her best, most conspiratorial look despite her ongoing sorrow for Hotch. "Yes." She retrieved the cell from its place among the trolls and handed it off to Rossi. "And! I went one better. He won't be able to _fix_ it, and he won't be able to _stop_ it, and he won't be able to _change_ it, and he won't be able to transfer its data to a new one, so whatever disgusting misbegotten bully hurt our Poster Boy For Good Hair…he's going to suffer for it! Mightily! With karma downloading on him like there's no tomorrow!"

Dave accepted the revamped phone with a beatific smile. "Thank you, Penelope. If karma had a handmaiden, she'd look just like you."

He dropped a loud, smacking kiss on the crown of her head and beat a hasty retreat.

He still had to pay a visit to Mason's office and he didn't want to miss a moment of Aaron's session with Dr. Fletcher.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi drove like the trained expert he was.

Fast. Cutting corners, but still maintaining an acceptable margin of safety.

He pulled into the university campus where Dr. Mason conducted his student-fueled research and found the man's office with ease. Pausing outside the door, Dave allowed himself the pleasure of a rich, full-bodied gloat over what was about to happen.

He could hear rustling noises and, judging by the foot traffic that was headed in one direction…out…, he knew the little doctor was probably packing up for the night. _And maybe thinking of dropping in at Fletcher's and horning his way in, or eavesdropping on Aaron's appointment._

With a grin as broad and evil as Hell itself, Rossi strong-armed the door, making it burst open in a most satisfactory way. And catching Mason completely off guard. Eyes wide with astonishment chased by dread with a soupcon of fear, the diminutive psychiatrist stared at his unwelcome visitor, aghast.

"Here-on-a-mouse! How ya doin'?" The FBI agent did a purposeful sliding, slinking approach, calculated to make Mason feel, if not under attack, then at least threatened. He stopped inches away from the shrinking, little man. "Nice place you got here, Here-on-a-mouse. Real nice."

Like any small prey, when Mason realized flight was impossible, he had no option but to stand his ground and bluster. "What are you doing here? Get out! You have no business here, Mr. Rossi! I'll call security and have you removed!" The tremor in the high-pitched voice, whether of surprise or fear, did Dave's heart good. It was another small payback for what the man had done to Hotch.

Rossi feigned a look of astonished martyrdom. "Now is that any way to talk to a man who's doing you a favor? Who's doing a good deed? Here-on-a-mouse, I would have expected better from you…a man trained in the interpretation of human behavior." He gave his head a sorrowful shake. "And here all I wanted was to make things right…"

Dave held out his hand, amused that Mason flinched a second before realizing that hand held a cell phone. _His_ cell phone.

The little doctor snatched it up and backed away, believing in the possibility of emerging the victor in this exchange. "It's about time! I'm a medical professional, you know. It's important that people be able to contact me. I need to be reachable 24/7. I've already missed several important calls." He bent over the device, holding down the button that would activate it. "I hope you and your _friend_ didn't damage it."

"Oh, I didn't damage it, Here-on-a-mouse." The little doctor froze at the change in Rossi's tone. Deadly. Leaden. Soft as thunder. "In fact…" Dave pulled out his own phone. "…I _improved_ on it."

Before leaving the Bureau, Rossi had entered Mason's number and assigned it a speed dial. Eyelids at half mast, he fixed the psychiatrist with a menacing gaze and pressed the appropriate button, activating Garcia's handiwork.

Hotch's deep voice emanated from Hieronymus's cell.

" _Everything ends up on the bitter side of the scale for you…am I right, Doctor? So sometimes you enjoy venting all that pent up resentment, right? And sometimes you do it in the name of psychiatry…" "_ _ **STOP IT!**_ _"_

The recording ended with Mason's own squeaking shriek. It was the tail end of the damning exchange he'd had with Aaron yesterday at Fletcher's office. The signature to his own personal nightmare when his duplicity had been discovered.

"That's your new ringtone, Here-on-a-mouse. A little gift from me to you. A little reminder in case you decide to try anything involving Agent Hotchner ever again." Rossi's voice remained level and lethal. "A very special ringtone. You can't change it. You can't mute it. And, sure, you can get a whole new phone, but you can't transfer any of the data from the old one. It's locked."

Rossi's grin was smug as he watched Mason's complexion transition from florid to ashen. "So that ringtone's going to be with you for at least a couple of days." He gave a satisfied sigh. "Well, my work is done here, Here-on-a-mouse. See ya 'round."

Dave sauntered out of the little doctor's office and headed down the wide hallway toward the exit. Halfway there, he pressed what would be his favorite speed dial number for the next two days.

The sound of Hotch's voice rang out, still audible as he left the building.

Rossi amused himself on the drive over to Fletcher's by imagining Mason in a library, or a church, or a meeting, or a grocery store…accompanied by Aaron's humiliating profile at high volume.

And ending with his own frantic, girlish shriek.


	59. Drive Time

Hotch lingered in his car, reluctant to enter Dr. Fletcher's building alone.

He knew it didn't make much sense, but these days few things did when it came to his feelings. Stretching his neck long, leaning against the headrest, he closed his eyes and decided to use the time before his appointment for some quiet self-analysis.

 _I'm a profiler. I should be able to look at myself objectively, if I try hard enough._

He couldn't. He found he didn't like himself. He didn't want to look that closely at something so flawed. And he was afraid if he delved too deep, Peter Lewis or his father would leer back at him.

 _I wonder if we take on aspects of everyone we fight. Maybe in order to beat them, we have to become them in a way._

The thought chilled him as it always did. He knew all about looking into abysses that looked back. He felt as though he carried bits of monsters around in his back pocket; unseen, but close enough to move with him, be part of him…affect him. The more he considered it, the more a quiet panic began to burble up from deep in his gut. He'd considered the concept before. Many times. But now it drew some unnamable fear up from his depths.

 _This isn't me. I don't get scared like this._ He latched onto words from Fletcher. _This is something that's been done_ _ **to**_ _me. It's not me. It's not…it's not…it's n…_

A sharp rap on the driver side window jolted Hotch out of his reverie. He struggled to control his reflexes, but the adrenalin that made him startle and jump was irrepressible. It made the grin of the man looking in at him widen.

"Hey, Aaron, told ya I'd be right behind you." Rossi's expression was positively jolly. More so than could be accounted for by amusement at making his best friend jump. "C'mon. Let's go see the Doc."

Hotch unbelted and opened the car door. Sliding out, his cautious eyes roamed over the street and its pedestrians; their number dwindling in the afterhours. "You sure Dr. Mason isn't coming?"

Dave laughed outright; a reaction that Aaron didn't think appropriate when considering his so-recent past experience with the little psychiatrist.

"Don't worry about Hieronymus." Rossi slung one arm over his Unit Chief's shoulders, propelling him toward their destination. "If he gets within half a block of us, I'll hear him coming."

Hotch cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder as Dave pushed him through the door to the building housing Fletcher's office. Aaron knew there must be something more to the story, something lurking beyond the words, but his imminent therapy session forced his mind to turn to other concerns.

He didn't mull over Rossi's assurance of Mason's absence, nor did he question who Dave speed dialed twice on their way up to Fletcher's floor…nor why the senior agent emitted a wicked chuckle every time he did.

XXXXXXXXXXX

A wary, but hopeful-looking Dr. Fletcher greeted the FBI agents. He wasn't sure what shape his patient would be in, having had time to brood over the monumental betrayal that had been foisted on him at the hands of Hieronymus Mason.

"Aaron, let me apologize again for what you went through last time you were here. I'm glad you decided to continue."

"I don't have much choice." There wasn't resentment in the words; more of suffering resignation. "And let's keep it straight about why I'm back: I don't care if you have to report on me to the Director. After invading my home and taking me at gunpoint in front of my son, I don't expect much." He raised his head and fixed Fletcher with dark, piercing eyes. "I'm back because I know something's wrong. I'm back because my son needs me." A crack shredded its way through the baritone voice. "And I can't give him what he needs the way I am right now. I need..." Hotch lowered his gaze and his chin, swallowing the words he'd been about to say… _Please help me..._ It meant too much to him, to Jack; it was too hard to ask.

Rossi's hands on his friend's shoulders, giving him a rough, companionable shake, bridged the awkwardness of an emotional moment. "You're a good boy, Aaron. Doc knows that." His reproving glance landed on Fletcher. "The Doc knows your priorities and I'm sure _he's_ in line with them." _And Here-on-a-mouse is out of the picture. For good._

The psychiatrist nodded. Taking a deep breath, he ushered Hotch toward his inner office. "And to that end, let's get to work, gentlemen."

A frisson of anticipation shivered through Fletcher's mind. Here was a challenge and now his patient was willing to make the effort, and there were no more obstacles between him and doing his level best to unravel the damage to Aaron's abused psyche.

And he really wanted to help this man.

XXXXXXXXXX

Hieronymus fled his office.

He trundled as quickly as his little legs would take him across the parking lot, waving away anyone who might accost him with a question or a greeting. The infernal phone kept going off; the ringtone broadcasting his humiliation in the regrettably deep, booming voice of Agent Hotchner that carried across the wide, student-and-faculty-and-staff-and-researcher-filled spaces of the campus.

He dove into his car and, despite the muggy warmth of the day, rolled the windows up as snugly as their mechanical workings would allow.

The ringtone sounded yet again.

He was trapped in the small space with the noise echoing around him, filling his ears and his car and surely still audible on the outside! Cursing under his breath, he shoved the cell deep into the space where the passenger seat cushion met the seatback. His petite fingers and desperation made it possible to wedge it in to the point where it disappeared and moved beyond the reach of even his probing, little hands.

Mercifully, the thing seemed to go quiet. Almost as if it knew it had been banished to some no-man's land reserved for vagabond coins, stray candy and lost pens. With a shuddering breath of relief, Mason began his drive home. He'd been planning on stopping to pick up his dry cleaning and making a grocery run, but he didn't want to spend more time than necessary traveling with the phone. His mind worked at a feverish pace, plotting his way out of the Machiavellian dilemma into which Agent Rossi had inserted him.

 _I'll go home. I'll check my messages and I'll spend all night, if I have to, transcribing my contact information. I'll get a new phone tomorrow. I'll destroy this one. And then…and then…_

Hieronymus's small nose wrinkled along with his brow, giving him the aspect of a dried apple doll one might find at a country fair. He knew that if he could just calm down and move past this temporary setback, as humiliating as it might be, he would be able to regroup, reconnoiter, and maybe find a way to come out on top of the situation. Not just the phone. The whole messy, misbegotten, wasted opportunity for his own personal advancement that Aaron Hotchner represented.

He hit a small pothole. The car bounced. An ominous clunking sound as something fell out of the back of the passenger side seat and onto the floor where Mason couldn't reach it.

The phone.

Pushed so far between the seat cushions that it had worked its way through them. And then, as though aware of its newfound freedom, its unfettered and un-muffled opportunity, the damned thing went off.

And Aaron's voice was once again bellowing his shortcomings at Hieronymus.

Growling a high-pitched, puppy-growl deep in his throat, a sound of pure frustration and rage vibrating along diminutive vocal cords, little Dr. Mason vowed he'd find a way to get back at Mr. Rossi.

He already knew the best way to do that would be to hurt the man's damaged friend. Tall, dark, hatefully handsome Agent Hotchner would have to pay the price for his teammate's unctuous grin and warped, gangster-ish prank.

By the time Hieronymus reached his home…as he was diving into the back seat and scrabbling along the floor trying to capture the evil cell as it shouted at him yet again…his fine mind began to compose a strategy that just might get him revenge on Rossi…and, if he played his cards right…if everything fell into place…might even grant him control of poor, needy, little Aaron's therapy.


	60. The Drug Connection

Afterwards, Hotch found he couldn't quite remember the appointment with Dr. Fletcher.

He didn't realize it at first. He took his leave of both the psychiatrist and Rossi, who said he wanted to have a word with the doctor. He made it down to the street and into his car. He sat behind the wheel for several minutes, wondering if he should wait for Dave, but ultimately deciding not to. He pulled into traffic, and…

… _that's_ when it hit him.

The Unit Chief was the type of man who ran and reran scenarios in his mind, inspecting and assessing; looking for chinks in logic or missed opportunities. He was a man who tried to learn from his experiences. So he couldn't help the way his brain fastened on the appointment, beginning with Fletcher's appreciation for his patient's return and Hotch's adherence to the fact that he had no choice in the matter. But then…things began to get fuzzy.

It wasn't a black hole in his mind; nothing so absolute, but his usual grasp of fine detail failed him. Driving home, he made an effort to dredge up recollections that should have had some precision to them.

Nada. There were general impressions, emotions that seemed to stop before they fully emerged. Exact quotes or reactions eluded him.

For a moment Hotch was puzzled. Then, he was disturbed. Then, that fluttery panic that he recognized as the hallmark of something done _to_ him, rather than something _intrinsic_ to him began to lurch about in his stomach. Then, he glanced in his rearview mirror and realized Rossi was tailing him.

Apparently his intent was to do so all the way home.

Hotch allowed himself a long, shaky exhalation of relief. He didn't seem to be very good company for himself lately. Dave's presence would be a welcome alternative to another Jack-less night. Still, the alpha-beast that wasn't quite _its_ elf either these days, felt the need to put on a brave front.

 _Rossi, you didn't need to follow me. I'm fine. I've taken up enough of your time these past few weeks anyway. Why don't you go on ho…_

Aaron shook his head. Even in his own ears the protestations didn't ring true. _And since when have I played that kind of denial game with Dave?..._

A snide voice curled around the edges of his thoughts like a hot echo from Hell. _Since I remade you, Aaron…_ Peter Lewis's giggle was faint; like a smoky sensation in the back of his throat, a bad taste on the roof of his mouth. It made Hotch's alpha-beast quail and sent his panic from a flutter into full-blown flight.

He pulled to the curb with an abrupt swerve, grateful that the traffic was negligible at this hour on the residential streets that surrounded his home.

He had the vague impression of Rossi's puzzled expression blurring by him as the senior agent's car shot past, then corrected its trajectory and pulled in a few yards down the street. Even through the physical reactions of a panic attack, Aaron thought _Smooth…_ Dave's maneuver was a combination of professional driving skills, trained reflexes, and the exquisitely-tuned, German engineering of his BMW.

And then chagrin…cringe-making embarrassment…almost supplanted Hotch's panic. Almost. Not quite. His inner alpha forced Aaron to open his car door. The alpha had envisioned him stepping out and assuring Rossi that he was alright. He was just fine. Maybe say he had a sneeze-attack and pulled over for safety's sake. But again, Hotch had never felt the need to hide from Dave and having the idea of such a subterfuge surge to the front of his thinking repeatedly, shook him.

Hearing Rossi's car door slam, Aaron levered himself up and out. He stood, leaning against the chassis, eyes closed, breathing in the coolness of the night air, trying to compose himself for Dave's sake.

Knowing he had only seconds to do so.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi had seen Fletcher signal him with a glance at the end of Hotch's session.

"You go on, Aaron. I'll catch up with you, okay?"

The Unit Chief gave a distracted nod. "Yeah. Sure. G'night, Doctor…Dave…"

Both men watched Hotch depart; heard his measured tread as he exited the office, headed toward the elevators. Fletcher took a deep breath and met Rossi's eyes.

"Did you see where he blanked?"

Dave wasn't sure, but he knew something had been off by the end. He took a stab at it. "When you were talking about treatment options?" And then he realized precisely when Hotch's features had gone stony, his eyes distant. Rossi's brows rose. "When you mentioned drug therapy?"

The psychiatrist's expression was grave. "Exactly. I'll tell you my theory, but you know Aaron a lot better than I do. So, I'm asking you first. Is there anything I don't know about him in relation to drugs?"

Rossi blinked. "You mean like…addiction?" The doctor's eyes searched the agent's, looking for clues that would tell him the older man's protective attitude toward the younger extended to covering up a less-than-stellar past. But then, shaking his head, Dave gave a weary chuckle. "Oh, Doc…that's really so, _so_ far off base."

"Is it?"

"Let me tell you about our Aaron." Rossi glanced at his watch; he didn't want Hotch to be alone this night, but correcting misconceptions about his friend was important, too.

"Doc, you can ask any member of the BAU about Aaron and drugs, because we've all noticed the same thing. He avoids them like they were week-old sushi. And I'm not talking recreational contraband-type stuff. I'm talking simple, over-the-counter painkillers. We've all seen the guy get bloodied in fender benders and fistfights. We've seen him nursing a headache and a sour stomach. But one thing we've never seen is Hotch popping a pill, even when it would be perfectly acceptable and just about bordering on mandatory if it were one of _us_ feeling the pain." Rossi shrugged and checked his watch again. "I don't think he even has a bottle of aspirin in his medicine cabinet. Maybe he's got some children's stuff for Jack, but for himself?...I don't think he even considers it an option."

Fletcher had the look of a man adding up equations and finding the sum to be particularly interesting. He nodded. "Should have known Aaron wouldn't fit the mold. Nothing's easy or straightforward with that poor guy."

"You seriously thought he might have had an addiction in his past?"

"No, but I needed to hear it anyway. Still…" The doctor gave Rossi a significant look from beneath one raised brow. "…I do think he has a drug problem of sorts."

Dave's features shifted, moving toward wary hostility. Clearly he was reconsidering his favorable judgment of Fletcher. Anyone who thought Hotch's aversion to medications was due to a hidden addiction had no clue about the man's true inner workings. The psychiatrist read the subtext in Rossi's expression and hurried to explain.

"This might be worth exploring with Aaron along the way, but…" Fletcher took a breath and decided to risk sharing his theory. He'd already enlisted Hotch's best friend as a sort of monitor of his patient's welfare outside standard therapy. Plus, he didn't want to alienate someone who was a key player in Hotch's life. "…but is it possible that when Aaron was small and abused and trying to hide his pain and injury…is it possible that asking for help, even in the form of an aspirin, was a risk too great to take?"

Dave's shoulders slumped. His wary look was swept aside, replaced by one of tragic realization. "Oh, God. That poor kid. He couldn't draw attention to himself when he needed it most; couldn't take the chance of being noticed and punished just because he…because he…" Rossi faltered, eyes filling.

"Because he existed at all." Fletcher finished the thought for him.

There was a moment of pained silence after which, shaking his head, Dave sighed. "So by 'drug problem' you mean he's still caught in that web his father wove."

"Pretty much. But I'm also thinking that the drugs Peter Lewis used on him added another level to his aversion. And…don't forget…we don't know what Lewis dug out of his subconscious. He could have reinforced all the fear of bad things happening if Aaron submits to using even a drug that's helpful."

"So he blanked out fairly early tonight."

"Exactly. When I suggested something for anxiety…just for a short time…might be beneficial."

Heaving an even deeper sigh, Rossi rubbed a hand over his beard. "So I guess that's a route we're not going to take, right?"

The psychiatrist looked ambivalent. "I need him to relax. He was tense and a little combative when he came in here."

Dave's lips drew up in a one-sided sneer. "Can you blame him? He wasn't sure if your _esteemed_ colleague would show up." The words dripped sarcasm.

Fletcher's on the other hand, were redolent with regret. "I know. I'm asking a lot of him. But he has to trust me and he has to lower his defenses, if we want to make any progress." He raised hopeful brows. "Maybe you could talk to him before next time? Just reassure him that I meant it when I said Dr. Mason would no longer be participating in his sessions? And, if he's dead set against medication of any kind, tell him it's okay. I'll think of something else…at least, I'll try." The doctor didn't look very hopeful.

"Sure." Rossi glanced at his watch again. "I'll go find him now. Didn't look like he was headed anywhere but home."

"Thanks, Dave. If nothing else, he can be sure Dr. Mason's out of the picture. He can trust that, and maybe that'll make him rest a little easier."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Knowing Hotch's destination, Rossi cut corners and pushed the limits, and had no trouble finding him en route.

He trailed along behind the Unit Chief's car, running over his discussion with Fletcher as he drove. _I just thought Aaron was one of those guys who takes his health really seriously…you know…my body's a temple and all that; didn't want to sully himself with medications._ Dave grimaced, realizing, if he'd thought about it, he'd have seen through that particular line of reasoning. _If he was that much of a purist, he wouldn't drink. And we've shared a l-o-o-o-t of scotch._

Rossi was driving on autopilot, mind occupied. So, it took him by surprise when the car in front of him gave a sudden swerve, pulling to the curb with graceless desperation. Dave's reflexes kicked in, doing a smooth, professional version of Hotch's abrupt stop.

As he unbuckled his seatbelt, he checked the rearview mirror, a frown creasing his brow. _What the…?_ Aaron was fumbling his way out of the driver's seat and propping himself against his car. His body language was awkward, like a stick-figure approximation of the man's usual lithe movements.

In a matter of seconds, Rossi was out of his BMW and striding toward his friend. "Aaron? You okay?" _Oh, no…_

Hotch trembled, arms wrapped around himself in a parody of his authoritarian crossed-arms stance. His pale complexion looked waxy in the streetlight, and, try as he might, he couldn't hide his labored breathing.

"Aaron?"

The eyes that met Rossi's were dark and tortured. "Dave…help me."

It was exactly what Hotch hadn't wanted to say.

But he couldn't have said it to a better person.


	61. A Little Walk, A Little Talk

Rossi stood before a Hotch he almost didn't recognize.

What he _did_ recognize were the hallmarks of a panic attack.

"Aaron…Aaron…it's alright. Breathe. Just breathe."

The trembling Unit Chief gave Dave a look of utter misery. Rossi stepped closer and laid one palm along his friend's lean cheek, coaxing eye contact. The other hand slid into place against Hotch's side, feeling the rabbit-fast pounding of a terrified heart, the ribs shuddering in rapid respiration.

"D-a-ave…"

"Shhhhh…it's okay. You'll be fine in a minute. Just breathe…breathe…" In unconscious sympathy, Rossi began taking deep breaths himself, holding them for a beat, releasing them in slow controlled demonstration, willing Hotch to follow suit. He could tell Aaron understood what was required. But the poor man couldn't master his body's reactions just yet. Dave knew his friend would be ashamed of such lack of discipline. Add that shame to whatever had triggered the panic attack and Hotch would be well and truly emotionally eviscerated.

"Come with me." Rossi repositioned the hand monitoring Aaron's breathing, reaching around his waist and pulling him away from his car. He could feel the resistance in his friend's body.

"It's okay. We're just going for a little walk. That's all. Not abandoning your car. Just taking a little stroll. Come on. Go with me on this." Dave exerted slightly increased pressure and had Hotch moving, although his gait was like a newborn colt's…shaky and tentative and in reluctant need of support.

As they made slow progress along the twilit sidewalk, Rossi's mind was racing over what Dr. Fletcher had discussed during this last appointment, much of which he realized Aaron hadn't taken in. Once he'd shut down at the mention of drug therapy, his comprehension of all that followed was suspect. Dave himself had grown increasingly concerned as he realized the depth of inadequate research or even the ability to diagnose Moral Injury Syndrome. _But even if it was a well-known and long-acknowledged condition, it's only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what's affecting Hotch. Still…_

Fletcher's words echoed in Rossi's mind. _So far, our thinking is that the first step is to turn the patient's mind outward; make him realize that the ugliness that was inflicted on him is only a small part of a grander scheme. We've found communing with nature to be restorative, enabling the injured to once again recognize beauty in the world._

It seemed a tepid, insignificant approach to something Dave wanted to beat into submission with a mallet, but he'd vowed to himself that he'd walk this road with Hotch, and, so far, Fletcher's was the only signpost along the way that he'd trust. _Certainly wouldn't give any credence to anything little Here-on-a-mouse might recommend…_

So, Rossi kept a companionable grip on Aaron and tried to strike a conversational, easy tone as they moved through the warm, dusky air.

Dave inhaled with deep satisfaction. "I'm a Northern boy born and bred, but nights like this make me wish I'd spent a little more time in the South, ya know?" He glanced to the side and met Hotch's look of thorough dismay. Rossi could envision the thought bubble above the Unit Chief's head… _I can't even breathe or walk on my own and you're discussing the weather!? Really!?_

Dave kept them moving forward, kept breathing deep of the balmy breeze, and kept talking almost as though musing to himself with no thought of anyone hearing or taking exception to the topic of conversation.

"I mean it, Aaron. Where I grew up…Long Island…the air had a bite to it. Ocean chill. Salt tang. But this?" He inhaled again with an appreciative pause. "This is like comfort food for your lungs." Rossi let a grin appear. "I can just about taste magnolias and mint juleps. 'Course, you probably took mellow nights like this for granted, being a Southern boy." Another glance showed him that Hotch's chest was heaving a little less strenuously; his respiration still hitched, but was nonetheless perceptibly smoother. Dave didn't know if the improvement was from the soothing subject matter, or indignation at his apparent disregard for his friend's anxiety. Didn't matter. He'd take either one so long as calm resulted.

"Take a deep breath, Aaron. Tell me if this air isn't as intoxicating as a fine glass of merlot…as stimulating as a beautiful woman…"

That did it. Hotch made a noise that might have been a choked laugh, or it might have been a gasping snort, or maybe even an exasperated reaction to Rossi's penchant for florid description; a method of expression that sprang from the essentially Italian soul of a best-selling author.

"Dave…D-Dave…"

Rossi paused them both, arm still around Aaron's waist. "Yeah?"

"Dave…shut up."

"Naaahhh…Don't wanna." Rossi kept walking, moving Hotch forward as well. After a few more minutes of mindless chatter, he felt what he'd been hoping for: Aaron's entire upper body expanded with a deep, therapeutic inhale. When he released it, the breath carried away a good deal of his tension as well. Dave felt the change and loosened his semi-embrace of his friend's waist.

Another pair of evening strollers, a middle-aged couple, passed by as he slid his hand around to rest on Hotch's back. The man's expression was impervious, but the woman had a sly, knowing smile. Almost a smirk as her eyes lingered on the two agents.

Squaring his shoulders, the Unit Chief shrugged Rossi's arm off and adopted a stern visage. Dave grinned. "What…you don't wanna be seen with me?"

"They thought we were a couple. You know…a _couple_."

Rossi's grin grew. He recalled Aaron telling him about last Halloween when Garcia had arranged for him to procure a Darth Vader costume for Jack. Hotch had been a little taken aback when the person he'd been told to meet, and who went by the title 'Madame,' turned out to be a drag queen. He'd been more grateful than words could tell for the man's help and courtesy in letting him pick up the costume after hours on a stormy night. He'd also been a little aggrieved when Madame had taken his hand and dropped a subtle hint that he found the FBI agent attractive. The next time they'd had a few drinks, Hotch had told Dave the story.

Rossi had been thoroughly amused.

Aaron was a sympathetic supporter of gay rights, but he also had an alpha male's dread of being mistaken for anything other than staunchly heterosexual. Dave thought Hotch had secretly wondered if he'd given off any signals that might have told Garcia's friend he'd be open to deepening their acquaintance.

Rossi's mood lifted when he felt Aaron's anxiety attack had ebbed. It turned mischievous partly out of relief and partly because it was just so much fun to tease straight-as-an-arrow Hotch. He returned his hand to his friend's waist and cinched the man closer to him.

"We look like a couple, huh? Hey…you could do worse…"

This time, the sound the Unit Chief emitted was most decidedly a snort of derision. But, he didn't pull away. The truth was, Aaron needed Dave's unwavering, undemanding moral support.

Dave knew it, too.

After a few more minutes, Rossi slackened his pace, forcing Hotch to slow as well.

"You feeling better now?" He gave Aaron a companionable shake, then withdrew his arm from the man's waist.

"Yeah."

"You wanna head back to the cars?"

Hotch nodded, eyes downcast; the gears running in his mind were almost audible to the older man. They walked in silence. Dave observed his friend's seeming absorption in watching the sidewalk disappear beneath his own feet. They were within sight of their respective rides when Aaron spoke, voice low and strained.

"I'm starting to think it might be a good idea for me to…to…" He took a shuddering breath. "I think maybe I should step down from the BAU. For a while. Maybe?"

"Mmmmm…" Rossi was noncommittal. Clearly, he was being asked for his opinion. And that meant Hotch hadn't made up his mind, which in itself wasn't typical of the decisive, forceful person who ran the BAU with a compassionate, yet authoritative, hand.

They reached Aaron's car and faced each other. Dave thrust his hands deep into his pockets and studied his boss's features in the dim streetlight. "When did you decide this? Recently? Like…oh, I dunno…while you were having trouble breathing and had to pull over?"

"What if something like that happens on a case? In the field? I…I can't…"

"It won't."

Eyes dark with inner turmoil searched out Rossi's. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. What were you thinking about when this hit you, Aaron? Do you know?" He could hear Hotch swallow, but words didn't seem able to make it out. "Were you thinking about yourself?...which is a perfectly normal thing to do, by the way…to engage in self-analysis immediately after a psychiatric appointment that you found disturbing. Were you?"

Hotch gave a single, miserable nod.

"Well, excuse you for being human and taking some time to do what you're _supposed_ to do when you're in that kind of therapy."

"But…"

"You are one of the most focused people I know, Aaron. When you're on a case, there's nothing else in your world. You eat, breathe, sleep…well, actually you don't eat or sleep when we're in the field…but you know what I mean. You have this single-minded devotion that borders on deprivation. What's more…I don't think you could stop yourself from being that way even if you tried. And thank God you _don't_ try, because that kind of leadership is one of the reasons we're the best team the Bureau's ever seen." Rossi vented a scornful whuff of air. "You won't be thinking of yourself once we get called out. Trust me."

Hotch's regard was fixed on the pavement once again. After a few thoughtful beats, he looked up. "I wish I could trust _myself_. I can't. I…" His gaze dropped.

"If Fletcher thought you were incapable of doing your job, he'd make you stand down. You know that. If you don't trust yourself, then at least trust me, and trust a professional who deals with agents and their emotions on a regular basis, okay?"

Aaron shook his head. Slowly at first, but then faster as his thoughts hardened. "Dave, how can I trust him when I know he's reporting back to the Director? I know I said it didn't matter, but…but it does. _All_ this matters and I can't keep it from surfacing. What if it…"

"What if we call it a night?" Rossi overrode what sounded like undeserved self-doubt. "No matter what state you're in, Aaron, you have to admit that you should at least sleep on it before making any big decisions about your career. Maybe even a _coupla_ nights." Hotch looked hesitant; a good sign. _He's not himself and I'll use that if I have to when it comes to protecting him_ _ **from**_ _himself._

"Yeah. Okay. I guess." But the words were dripping with defeat.

"Good." Dave pushed Aaron toward the door of his car. "Go home. I'll be right behind you. All the way." His voice lowered. "Remember: I got your back."

XXXXXXXXXX

As Hotch pulled away from the curb and passed Rossi's BMW where it idled, waiting to follow him, he saw the older man dialing his phone; something he'd been doing frequently earlier.

 _Must be Hayden or Joy…his family…Lucky guy._

XXXXXXXXXX

Dave pulled out and fell in line behind Aaron's car.

He pressed a speed dial number he rarely used. Not Hieronymus. Not this time.

The call was picked up on the first ring. Nothing incoming was ever left unanswered at this number.

It was tended 24/7 by agents with the training and judgment to know if the Director should be alerted, or if taking a message would be sufficient.

Rossi knew his request for a meeting first thing in the morning would be transmitted through the appropriate channels.


	62. The Enemy Within

"David Rossi…well, well, well…"

The lines on the Director's face arranged themselves into a smile. Although genuine, it was all too clear that his careworn features rarely hosted such an expression.

Rossi could read wariness in the depths of the man's eyes. He'd expected it. His message requesting a meeting hadn't given a reason. Both of them knew Dave was playing the longevity card; calling up a favor commensurate with his past service record. As well, they both knew that granting the request for a meeting was in itself a tremendous courtesy.

The Director extended his hand. "I hear congratulations are in order, Dave." Rossi's brows rose in silent inquiry. "You have a family now. A daughter, if my information is correct. A grandson, too. Congratulations."

"Thank you." It wasn't unsettling that the Director had access to his agents' personal information. Rossi was sure that as soon as he'd agreed to a meeting, the man had brushed up on the latest developments in Dave's life.

"So…" The Director swept an arm toward the chairs populating one side of his office. "…have a seat and tell me what I can do for you." One cagy brow raised itself at Rossi. "My guess is it has something to do with young Hotchner? Acquiring a blood family doesn't negate the love and loyalty to your _chosen_ one, does it?"

Now _that_ was unsettling. It spoke of knowledge that went far beyond the perusal of records. It spoke of a native cunning in the ways and emotions of men that rivaled the BAU's talents for deciphering human equations.

Rossi hid his slight unease by choosing a chair and making himself comfortable. When he was ready, he looked up, meeting the Director's eyes and the almost mischievous twinkle in them that was even rarer than a smile. "Sir, I always have to remind myself that 'personal life' and 'private life' are different once one enters these hallowed halls. Agents can have one…but not the other."

"Sorry, Dave." A slow, crafty look crept over the Director's features. "Well, actually I'm not sorry. Saves a little time to cut to the chase and in our world time isn't money…it's often lives that are at stake. So…" He dropped into a chair opposite Rossi's. "…am I right? Is Agent Hotchner having a rough time?"

"Rough doesn't begin to describe it. This agency betrayed him. You know that."

The Director's tone hardened. "We make mistakes. But as long as I'm in this office, if it doesn't compromise national security, we'll admit to them and we'll try to rectify them. In the end, I'm the one who has to take responsibility. I'm the one who has to justify the actions of every agent and operative in the Bureau." Eyes locking with Rossi's, the Director gave a frustrated sigh. "Our intention was never to harm Hotchner. And I've assigned one of the best psychiatrists on our roster to help him understand that, Dave. I'm keeping an eye on the process myself. Want to make sure the boy gets what he needs."

"He knows you're keeping tabs on him. It's not having the beneficial effect you seem to think it should."

The Director had been leaning forward, making his point. Now he sat back, the beginnings of a concerned frown appearing. "What's going on with him?"

Rossi's turn to lean in and aim his words. "He's struggling…like any man would who's devoted himself to his career and then had the rug pulled out from under him." He paused, giving the next words added gravity. "…Like any _father_ would whose son keeps getting caught in the backlash."

The Director's tough façade didn't crack. It was more of a melt. His posture went from ramrod straight to sympathetic slump. But only about the shoulders. He was still The Director after all, and made of sterner stuff than most.

"Hotchner's _son_?" Dave gave a single, slow nod, his demeanor taking on some of his own sorrow over Jack…the littlest victim of his father's dangerous job. "What's going on with his son?"

"Kid's starting to remember stuff no kid should ever have experienced in the first place. And Aaron knows he needs to be in a better place himself before he can help his son. So…"

"So Hotchner's throwing himself on emotional grenades? He's willing to sacrifice his own wellbeing out of desperation to help his child?"

Another slow, grave nod was Rossi's only response.

The Director's sigh could have found a place in a dictionary beside the word "regretful." He rose from his seat and crossed to the windows…bulletproof, of course…lining one wall. During an extended silence, he kept his back to Dave. He crossed his arms behind him and stared at the Quantico landscape. When he finally spoke, Rossi strained to hear. It was more as though the Director was holding a debate with himself; something Dave had no doubt the man did often when there was no one who could advise him. Heading up the FBI was a lonely job.

"So… we have collateral damage. This time we hit a man where it really hurts. We've destroyed his whole family. Yeah. That's what we did." A few more beats of silence fell before the Director turned back to address Rossi directly. "Why are you here, Dave? What is it you think can be accomplished by talking with me?"

The agent blinked. It was an unexpected question, but Rossi was a writer; he was all about words, and they came at need. "I wanted some kind of reassurance that I could bring back to Hotch. I was hoping you could give me something that would help him understand why he's being treated differently, why the doctor he's supposed to trust in order for therapy to be effective has been asked to report directly to you when that's not standard procedure."

The two men studied each other. Eventually, the Director nodded and returned to his chair.

"I've already explained that I want to be sure we're doing everything we can to get Agent Hotchner back into fighting form. But the fact that you're here, Dave, tells me he won't be satisfied with that explanation. Nor should he be." His gaze fell on Rossi for another disconcerting span of time, but Dave had the feeling he wasn't really visible. He was just a focal point representing the problem at hand. He was just the touchstone that allowed the Director's mind to click its way through to whatever would be the outcome of this appointment.

At last it came.

"Dave, when I said I'm the one on whom responsibility falls for whatever action the Bureau does or does not take, I meant it. That includes those affected beyond our immediate employ. That includes victims and unsubs and…families." He took a deep breath. "I imagine Hotchner has a lot of anger and hurt right now. Am I right?"

Rossi nodded, but didn't speak. Anything he could say would be extraneous at this point. The Director was known for decisive moves that verged on being multidimensional: they took into account every aspect of whatever issue was under his personal microscope. And right now he was looking at Hotch with the added facet of a child having been impacted by DOJ activity.

"Well, there's nothing I can give you to take back to your boy that'll make him feel better."

Rossi's face transformed. His jaw didn't quite drop, but his muscles slackened with disbelief. Conversely, he stiffened his posture, preparatory to raising a heartfelt and very passionate objection. He didn't get that far.

"Dave, Agent Hotchner needs to get past the pain and the rage that, if I'm reading all this correctly, has been building for a long time. Probably goes back years to the loss of his ex-wife. A man with that much turmoil inside him can't untangle it himself. That's a given. But it's not right to expect one person…no matter how lauded his psychiatric accomplishments…to sift through all that mess on his own, either." The Director took another deep breath and sat a little straighter. "A man with that much inside needs to get it out himself; needs to fire off a few rounds so the boil settles to a simmer before he can hear anything or anyone."

Rossi gave his superior a sidelong, quizzical look.

"Dave, let's set up a time for Hotchner to meet with me."

Rossi's eyes widened. He scrubbed an anxious hand across his beard; a mannerism that the Director read with ease.

"Your boy needs a target. I'm the one who's in charge. I'll give him carte blanche to scream his head off at me, call me every name in the book…hell, he can even take a swing at me, if he wants." A sly grin surfaced. "Not sayin' he could _land_ a punch, but he can try. There'll be no consequences. Whatever happens won't make its way into any report or get past these walls. You can trust me on that."

For a moment, Rossi considered the proposal. Then, he gave his head a slow, sad shake. "I can trust you, Sir. I'm not sure Aaron can. Trust is a major source of conflict for him right now. Considering all he's been through, I don't blame him."

The Director glanced toward the window again. After a moment, his crafty smile returned. "Then I'll make it easy for him. I'll go to Hotchner's house. Sometime when his son isn't around. On his own turf, where he's been cuffed and, to his thinking, betrayed…it'll be that much easier to pull his trigger."

The smile faded. The man who looked into Rossi's eyes was as sincere as he'd ever been. "Everything else aside, if we did some harm to Hotchner's son, then I can't think of a better reason for him to want to beat the crap out of the whole Bureau. Dave, I've been around a long time. I know this will help. You don't have to be part of it. I do. And…truth be told…it'll help me, too."

The Director's eyes were mournful.

"I never gave Hotchner's son a second thought. Let's get the boy's father back on his feet. He needs to confront the enemy. And right now…that's me."


	63. Calling the Director

"Dave, what the hell's wrong with you?"

Hotch scowled at his best friend. After weeks of feeling that _he_ was the guy under everyone's microscope, that the team was keeping a weather eye on their Bossman, Hotch was secretly relieved to see his senior agent acting the distracted one. It made Aaron feel more normal. It made the constant reminder of psychiatric appointments and Jack-less nights a little less like the badge of damage he fancied everyone could see pinned to his chest. "Dave!"

"Huh?" Rossi looked up. He'd been standing at the catwalk railing overlooking the bullpen for a good twenty minutes, lost in thought.

"What's going on with you?" Hotch stood close and kept his voice low.

"Nothing…I dunno…Maybe…No…Nothing."

"LYE-ar!" Although _sotto voce_ , Aaron's comment on his friend's response was forceful. It also had a touch of affectionate humor. Still, Hotch's concern was genuine. "Everything alright with Hayden? Your daughter, Joy? Your grandson?"

"Wha…? Oh, yeah…no…everything's fine."

As Rossi resumed staring out over the bullpen, clearly engaged in mental juggling of some weighty issue, the Unit Chief studied his friend's profile, and decided it was his turn to ferret out psychological matters. It felt good to be the ferret-er rather than the ferret-ee for a change…

"Dave, you're preoccupied. I need to know why. Not just because it's affecting you right here and now while you're at work, but because I kind of need an anchor in my life with all this…stuff…that's going on. And you're it. So if you need for me to back off…not lean on you so much…"

Despite being distracted, Rossi could hear the echo of Dr. Fletcher's suggestion that acquiring a new family…a _blood_ family…might have left Hotch feeling displaced. Spurred by a barb of guilt, Dave pulled himself back from thoughts that nonetheless centered around Aaron. _Maybe he'd appreciate knowing how much he's on my mind, but I have no idea how he'll react in the next couple of minutes...not if I tell him the whole story…and maybe I shouldn't._ Rossi's sad eyes looked out from beneath a creased brow as he turned to confront the younger man. "I think I might have done something stupid, Aaron."

Hotch waited for more. A few beats passed. "Tell me. Maybe I can help. God knows it's about time after all you've done for me these last few weeks."

Looking abashed, Rossi shook his head and dropped his regard to the catwalk floor. "It's the concept of 'help' that got me in this situation in the first place. As for what I've done for you…" He faded out, reluctant to broach the subject that was his latest endeavor to 'help' Aaron.

Puzzled, Hotch gave his head the merest shake. He needed more. Dave took a deep breath and the plunge.

"I went to see the Director."

Hotch's brows rose, but his voice went flat. "You did. The Director."

"Yeah, the Director." Rossi shuffled his feet; the beautifully-tooled Italian leather producing a soft susurration against the concrete floor. It was an expensive sound. It set the Unit Chief's teeth on edge.

"You were called in for a meeting?"

"No. I requested one."

"Why?" The single word harbored a world of suspicion and dread.

"I wanted to find out more about that request for Fletcher to report to him directly."

Rossi looked back out over the bullpen; anywhere but into the eyes of this man whose trust in the world at large had been battered beyond recognition…and who now might be losing the last vestige he'd thought safely invested in his closest friend. "Didn't turn out the way I'd expected."

"Dave…?"

One corner of Rossi's mind mused at the way he could hear visuals. He didn't have to see Hotch to know that color had ebbed from the man's complexion. His tone said it all. "There's good news, though, Aaron. He's taking an interest in you because he really does feel badly about how you were treated. Not just being arrested, but for all the things you've lost along the way because of your job."

"Haley." It was a whisper. In it, Rossi could hear Hotch turning a whiter shade of pale. Or maybe it was anger he heard.

"Yeah. And…and I mentioned Jack; that there'd been an impact on him that might have gone deeper than anyone suspected."

"Jack…" Still a whisper, but now one that had to find its way through increasingly rapid respiration.

"The upshot is, he wants to talk to you, and…and I can't really say much more about it. It needs to come from him." Rossi felt regret lancing through his internal organs like cold, sharp needles. He could sense Hotch's intense focus; every ounce of the man's professional skills trained on him, reading him. Dave tried to maintain his equanimity, but those cold, stabbing needles made him shiver; something his boss picked up with ease. Hotch could read distress and assigned it what he thought was a logical cause.

"Am I being fired?"

 _Man up, Rossi…face the guy._ Dave shrugged the tension out of his shoulders, squared them, and turned to look into eyes that used to trust him, but were now dark with troubled imaginings. "No. I told you, Aaron. He's sorry, genuinely sorry for all you've been through. And for this agency's part in it. He wants to help you."

It was hard to bear up under the Unit Chief's stark scrutiny. Rossi called on his own profiling talents to help him do so. What he saw was a hardening in Hotch, a stiffening in his posture, a tightening of his jaw muscles.

"I don't buy it, Dave. That man didn't become Director of the FBI by being maudlin and sentimental. If he's keeping tabs on an agent, it's because he's unsure about him. He's waiting to see if I'm worth saving. If I'm not, he won't lose any sleep over kicking me to the curb."

It was the last thing Rossi wanted to hear, because it had been the first thing he'd suspected, too, when the Director had said he'd personally confront Hotch. But Dave was sure he had detected true regret and compassion as well. He wasn't ready to give up on that more optimistic outlook.

"And as for the impact on my son…," Hotch continued. "…he didn't realize how much it would affect a kid to lose his mother?" A cynical edge sharpened Aaron's words. "Hard to think of anything _more_ catastrophic. Hard to believe it just now occurred to him that Jack's paid a pretty hefty price on the Bureau's behalf. Easier to believe that he's thinking family concerns are playing a part in rendering one of his agents a useless pile of…" Hotch cut himself off. A glance across the bullpen had warned him his voice was rising. Inquisitive looks were being directed at the two men on the catwalk.

Rossi took Aaron's arm, drawing him toward his office. "Let's continue this somewhere more private."

The Unit Chief pulled free. "There's nothing more to say, Dave. _Was_ there anything else? Like when he wants this meeting to take place?" His voice was at a quieter register, but a current of anger was still rendering the words brittle and terse. "Maybe I'll go see him now…"

"Get in here." Rossi renewed his grip on his friend, half-dragging him into his office and closing the door. "Now calm down and listen to me. You were never one to run off half-cocked, Aaron. You always gather as much information as you can before setting out to confront anyone."

"Do I still have that much control of the situation? You really think it'll make any difference how I 'prepare' for this meeting?" The words sounded as though gravel were churning beneath them; barely contained violence.

Dave's lips parted, preparatory to making a retort he hoped would jar Hotch out of this adversarial mood. But he caught himself and pulled back, eyes narrowing. _My God. The Director was right. This isn't your everyday anger. This is soul-deep, debilitating rage. He_ _ **does**_ _see the Bureau as the Enemy. And with a capital E._ Rossi was careful to keep his expression blank, his voice even. He nodded at the man bristling before him.

"Maybe you're right, Aaron. Why don't you call his office and see if he's in?" _And if I know our Director, his assistant has already been primed for the call. There'll be a meeting, but it won't be here._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two days had passed since Rossi had returned Hieronymus Mason's phone, and the little man was still stewing.

He'd purchased a new one. He'd laboriously entered all his information into it; a process that had demanded ongoing, close proximity to the old, Garcia-altered, Rossi-approved one.

But the humiliation of his drive home wouldn't stop running through his mind.

He'd chastised himself after that torturous ride when the cell repeatedly blared his shortcomings at him. _I should have just turned it off!_ He had bolted for the door of his apartment even as the thing, with seemingly preternatural knowledge, had gone off again. After he had slammed the door behind him, the little doctor had glared at the caller ID. Unknown.

But he was sure he knew who was at the instigating end of it.

Little Hieronymus was easily flustered when his ego was on the line, but safe in the confines of his house where no one else could hear Agent Hotchner's booming condemnation, logic had returned. He had pressed the button to turn the device off.

He'd pressed it again.

And again.

Until he had realized it wouldn't turn off.

It had made that night and the following day nightmarish.

Worse than the few times the damn thing had blared out his humiliation had been the constant state of anxiety as he'd been forced to work to transcribe his contacts into the new phone. He had no idea when or even if the battery would die, or if it, too, had been altered and would resist recharging. He had to get all the information out in case, once it did die, it wouldn't be accessible ever again. And, too, during that time, little Hieronymus had been forced to admit to himself that his claim to be so important he needed to be available 24/7 to all the _other_ important people who might require his intellect and expertise…well…that wasn't quite true. There were times his input was necessary, but most of his colleagues considered it a last resort to have to deal with that snippy, condescending, 'vile, little man.' It became apparent when no one other than caller Unknown ID tried to contact him.

Mercifully, Mason had completed the input of data in one long, arduous session that had lasted into the wee hours.

Now, the diminutive doctor stood and stretched out the kinks spawned by tension and the constant expectation that the old phone would scream at him yet again. With great care, he placed his new cell off to one side. He took the old one with him as he stumped down the hallway to a closet.

Rummaging through the shelves, his lips lifted in a vicious sneer as he found what he wanted.

Little Hieronymus spent the next fifteen minutes out on the sidewalk introducing the Garcia-customized phone to the blunt end of a hammer.

And late hour and sleeping neighbors be damned. He wasn't going to stop until only shards remained.

When he was done, breathing heavily from the unaccustomed exertion, Dr. Mason went indoors, leaving the detritus as mute testimony to his fury at Rossi.

He picked up the new, pristine, as yet unused phone and caressed it. He knew exactly who to honor with its first call.

If the Director of the FBI was interested in keeping tabs on Agent Hotchner's progress, Hieronymus was going to make sure the man knew who was foremost in the field of Moral Injury Syndrome.

It only stood to reason that the agent's care should be transferred to the best authority available.


	64. Ready, Aim ---

Hotch's anxiety levels were spiking.

When he'd jabbed the number that connected him to the Director's office, sure enough, just as Rossi had suspected, he was maneuvered into position by a very competent aide. By the time the call ended, the combination of the assistant's pre-informed, proficient manipulation and Hotch's frazzled emotions had resulted in an appointment being set for that evening. At the Unit Chief's home.

Aaron was dazed. Unsure of how it all came about.

Dave had been standing by and had no doubts at all. The Director was a master at folding people's weaknesses in on themselves. Apparently, he hand-picked his closest supporting staff to have the same talent. Plus, their superior knew Aaron's current vulnerabilities; had likely been reviewing and studying the twists and turns and dark corners of SSA Hotchner. All he had to do was provide his aide with insights and suggestions, and the effect was like loosing a hound upon an emotionally disheveled, weakened fox.

Poor fox…

Hotch blinked and swayed a bit; a physical manifestation of his mental state. Then, he bent to his phone once more, calling Jessica and then Jack with his sincerest regrets that he had to take care of some business that night. His son would stay with his sister-in-law. Yet again. Having alerted his little family, he closed his phone and slipped it back in his pocket with an absent-minded air.

"Aaron? You okay?"

Dark, baffled eyes tracked to Rossi. Hotch nodded in a most unconvincing way. "Yeah. Sure. I'm okay…I'm okay…I'm…"

 _Awww, Jeez…He's doing the damn mantra._ "You sure? You want me to hang out with you this evening?"

"What?" The Unit Chief's head snapped up, eyes focusing. "No…no. Thanks, but…" He took a deep breath that seemed to fill him up, straightening his spine and giving him a reassuring look of command. "…I…I can handle this, Dave. It's just…just…"

"What?"

The air went out of him. The authoritative appearance had been fleeting. Hotch deflated, posture and shoulders slumping. "Kind of weird for him to make a personal visit to fire me. A house call."

"Aaron. He is NOT going to fire you. Please. Trust me." _Really. Please don't lose that last bit of faith in_ _ **me**_ _just because it feels as though the world in general has decided to use your heart for target practice. And Jack's heart, too, which is even worse._

Dave counted it a victory when Hotch didn't go for immediate disagreement, opting instead to subject the older man to slow, grave regard. After several uncomfortable moments during which Rossi fancied he could see thought bubbles forming and bursting in rapid succession over the younger man's head, Aaron heaved a sigh and nodded. "Okay…okay…"

 _Damn. It's just a truncated version of the mantra. Some things never change._ "How 'bout I take you out for a drink before you go home?"

Hotch's lips twitched in a faint, mirthless homage to a smile. "Yeah. That's all I need…welcome the Director into my home reeking of scotch."

"Well…maybe not." Rossi took a deep breath and released it in a long, slow exhale. The two men's eyes met and held. This time Aaron's lips trembled at the edges.

"God, Dave. How'd we ever get here? Ever wonder about that?"

 _He needs confidence. I can at least give him that. Save the sentimental stuff for later when maybe he_ _ **will**_ _want a drink…_ "I don't wonder. I know. I'm here because I missed being an agent. Being a writer wasn't enough. Still had things to set right. And you're here, my friend, because you're the best. Natural selection and all that evolutionary stuff Reid could tell you about, ya know? You rose to the top of the BAU, 'cause that's where you deserve to be." Rossi looked out the office window at the bullpen where the team was wrapping things up for the day. "This is where you belong, Aaron. This is your home."

"That's what Haley said. She hated that."

"Haley didn't seem the type to like sharing her possessions. Make no mistake, Aaron. You were the best gift she ever got; her prize. Here…" His gesture included more than the BAU. It took in the whole Department of Justice. "…here…you still are. One of the best things to ever happen to the Bureau."

Hotch studied the older man's features, searching for any subterfuge, no matter how well-meaning. Rossi never wavered. At last, Aaron nodded, grateful for the small warmth his friend's words had kindled when so often these days he felt chilled and solitary. "Thanks, Dave."

"Any time."

"I'm gonna head home. Get this over with."

Rossi watched his leader stalk away; stiff-legged like a feral dog expecting combat. He could still envision thought bubbles, expanding and popping above the dark cowlicks. _And it's still that damn mantra running through his mind._

 _Aaron, you are so_ _ **not**_ _okay._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Director was prepared.

More than prepared.

As much as he could, he'd made himself an expert. In the time between his aide having manipulated the meeting and arriving at Hotch's door, the Director had re-read all the pertinent information in this agent's dossier. He'd called Dr. Fletcher and lent an attentive ear to the psychiatrist's observations. He'd pulled strings to look at Jack Hotchner's school records for the past few years.

And he'd dressed strategically; shedding the official suit and tie of his station and choosing instead loose, casual clothing that would accomplish two things. First, his appearance would throw Agent Hotchner off his game just a little bit. Second, if things turned physical, the Director would be unencumbered.

And if he played his cards right, the encounter would definitely take a turn toward the brutal, rather than the conversational.

Driving over to Hotch's home, the Director felt an unaccustomed thrill of anticipation. It had been years since he'd been in the field. His position demanded he remain at the hub of activity, the place where information was calibrated and decisions were made. Staging a strategic confrontation with a man who was a bit of a wild card brought back the adrenaline-fueled sense memories of his younger days.

He'd missed that edgy feeling of going into battle.

He also felt a twinge of remorse. What he was doing might be termed 'tough love,' but he had to acknowledge the inherent pain factor of his plan. Goading a man who was in a fragile state was no game. _But Hotchner's been licking his wounds for years now, and they're not healing. If what I read is true and that Lewis unsub used them against him, those wounds have become too much of a liability. Should've done something about addressing them a long time ago, but…_ The Director shrugged. If anyone understood being spread thin and having to prioritize to protect the many at the expense of the few, he did.

 _So maybe I'm feeling a little guilty and this meeting isn't just for Hotchner's benefit._ He gave his head a rueful shake. _Don't overthink this. Just give the guy a focal point to release all that resentment and rage he's been bottling up for way too long._

There wasn't time to re-think or re-consider.

He was pulling up to Agent Hotchner's house.

And he was really glad that despite his time bound to a desk, he'd kept himself to a rigorous training schedule. _Just hope, if it comes to it, that this young buck doesn't kick my ass._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch thought going home a little early would give him a chance to prepare. Mentally. Emotionally.

All it did was allow him more time to play host to the darkest worries that Dave's words hadn't been able to quell.

He paced.

He entered and exited every room, lingering longest in Jack's, wondering how whatever happened in the next few hours would affect the boy's opinion of his father. Longing welled up in his heart for the days when his son had played with action figures and credited Daddy with super-hero status. _No one beats Daddy!..._ Guilt washed over him. That had been in the wake of Haley's death. _How can I look on that time with anything even remotely resembling fondness? What kind of monster does that make me?_ The same question he'd posed to Rossi settled over him once again, like a dank, gray shroud. _How did I get here?_

Sorrow and self-loathing made their insidious way up from the depths of Hotch's psyche, taking their place beside the ever-present anger that was so pervasive it felt as though it was a sour component of the very air he breathed.

Not the composed mood he'd been striving for.

The doorbell rang.

Time was up. Ready or not.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Agent Hotchner." The Director kept his features carefully blank; his voice equally unreadable.

"Sir."

Although Aaron usually changed his attire when he was at home, he hadn't today. A suit and tie were his armor; a sign of the competence he didn't really feel anymore. It was unsettling to see his enigmatic boss in clothing that wasn't even casual wear. It was active wear. Hotch's profiler's mind raced, trying to overcome vestiges of his inner turmoil and assign a meaning to every nuance of the Director's appearance.

"May I come in, Agent?"

Aaron nodded and stepped aside.

As the Director passed, he reached out and placed a firm hand behind Hotch's shoulder, turning him and propelling him deeper into the foyer. _He doesn't want me here. Probably extremely sensitive to his home being invaded by uninvited DOJ personnel. I can work with that._ He could feel the reluctance and indecision in the muscles beneath his palm. When Aaron planted his feet and resisted being controlled any further, the Director let his hand drop. He'd made his agent uncomfortable. It was a start.

"I wanted to know how you're doing, Agent Hotchner." Aaron's boss adopted a relaxed stance, hands free. It didn't look threatening, but it was the posture of someone who could leap into action with ease.

"You could have done that at the office, Sir."

"I could have. And you would have deflected my questions and we both would have been only half-engaged in the conversation, knowing that either of us could be called away at any moment."

"I'm fine, Sir."

During the long pause that followed, the two men studied each other. Hotch saw an adversary with an unknown agenda…in his home. The Director saw a man trying hard not to glower, trying not to let his body reflect the aggression and anger lying just below his surface. When it was obvious that Aaron wasn't going to say anything more, his guest picked up the conversational thread.

Glancing at his surroundings, the Director was still expressionless. "Nice place you've got here."

"Thank you, Sir."

 _He's not going to let me in. This is going to be a monosyllabic farce of communication. So…I'm sorry, son, but I'm going to start pushing your buttons._ "Good place to raise a kid. Good neighborhood."

Hotch nodded. He couldn't hide that his lips were pressing ever tighter; his respiration edging into more ragged territory.

 _We're almost there, Agent. And you're in worse shape than I thought. I don't care if that rage and hurt inside you is really yours, or the invention of some unsub running roughshod through your mind. It's got to come out. You're already looking at me as though I'm the enemy. Forgive me, son…_

The Director had read all the meticulous reports concerning the day his Unit Chief had been arrested. Now, he tilted his head, stepping to one side and giving a calculating look to the area a few feet further away from the front door.

"So…is this where it happened? Where you got taken down?" Hotch went very still, his eyes unblinking. The Director took a deep breath. "Is it? And the kid was…where?" He raised his chin toward the wall where he knew Agent Jareau and the two boys had been standing. "There?"

Hotch wasn't moving, but everything inside him was flinching. Like flesh held too close to a flame.

The Director flexed his knees in readiness. _Here we go…_ "So your son had a ringside seat."

And then the Director pulled the trigger.

He smiled and gave a breathy, little chuckle, shaking his head as though in appreciation of one of the funniest jokes he'd ever heard. "Seeing Dad driven to his knees and cuffed. Don't that beat all…"

Turned out Hotch's trigger was of the hair variety.


	65. Tangles

_FBI Defensive Tactics Manual_ , copyright 1958, revised 2015, page 56, section 2, _Assault Procedure_ :

When confronting an opponent of near equal height, but lesser weight, one of the most effective procedures in controlling the situation is to prevent your opponent's feet from gaining purchase on any surface. Gripping your adversary from behind will allow you to repeatedly lift him, thus keeping him from attaining a functional stance. Combine this method with kicking one or both of his feet out from under him, and/or dragging him backwards. Although a stop-gap measure, this tactic may be employed long enough for backup to arrive, or for your opponent's struggles to exhaust him. In addition, other holds may be applied from this position to bring the altercation to a swifter end.*

*See page 79, section 4, _Miscellaneous Holds and Throws_ , Lethal Factor 8-9

XXXXXXXXXXXX

At first, the Director held on for dear life.

He'd expected Agent Hotchner to attack, but even so, he'd been taken aback by the speed and ferocity. _Never underestimate paternal rage._ He tightened his grip on his own wrists, arms locked around Aaron's ribs and biceps from behind, pinning the agent's arms.

The Director was fully aware that he owed having the upper hand to the conjunction of a number of mercifully coincidental factors.

First, the emotional stew that had been simmering for so long, whether or not Peter Lewis had stirred it, had ignited. Its force had deprived Hotch of his usual tactical expertise. In short, he was, for a moment, a thoughtless, raging beast.

Second, the suit jacket Aaron was wearing. The Director had been able to sidestep his agent's initial charge, grabbing the fabric from behind and yanking it down to mid-chest, effectively binding the Unit Chief's arms to his sides and pulling him off balance.

Third, Hotch's weight had lessened, as it usually did, from his ongoing ordeal. Once the Director had secured his grasp, he was able to alternate between lifting Aaron and dragging him backwards just enough to prevent him from gaining a foothold and thereby enough leverage to twist out of the Director's grip.

Fourth, after the first, red-hot burst of fury, Hotch knew on some level who he was fighting. Years of discipline that had allowed him to maintain control, even when the likes of Erin Strauss had pushed him to his limits, still held a certain amount of sway. The fire inside him didn't obliterate _all_ reason; at least not once the initial attack had siphoned off some of its savagery.

All in all, the Director felt his judgment, that Agent Hotchner was not himself, was right on point. Ordinarily, the agent would never have been uncontrolled. Steaming…yes. Volatile…no.

Still, it took every bit of the older man's strength and skill to contain his subordinate for those first explosive moments.

When the Director felt a change in the body he was restraining, he exhaled grim relief. Yet he knew there would be no repeat performance of this altercation. _He'll never fall for it again. No one else will get the chance to light him up like this. So…_

When Hotch transitioned from aggressive twisting and struggling to trembling and panting even as he continued to make fruitless attempts to regain his footing, the Director tightened his arms once more and gave his Unit Chief another lift and shake. "Got anything else in there that needs to come out, boy?" Despite the older man's labored breathing, the intent to provoke was clear. Just to be sure there was no mistake, he gave Hotch another shake. "Boy?"

A low growl issued from deep in Aaron's throat. Being termed a 'boy' in most contexts was insulting, of course, but even more so to someone with Hotch's Southern roots. The word smacked of dismissive contempt.

The Director lifted and shook him again. "You wanna let the Bureau know how you feel, now's the time… _boy_."

Throughout the struggle, Hotch's boss had kept a keen awareness of the distance he had traveled with each backward step as he dragged his agent just enough to keep him off his feet. One of the faults of the tactic was that it was easy to run out of the space necessary to execute it. Now, as he felt renewed anger building in Aaron, he risked glancing over his own shoulder, hoping he could count on a clear path for at least a few more paces.

He was distracted for a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

With sinking trepidation lodging deep in his stomach, the Director felt the body in his grasp heave and twist; its feet planted flat on _terra firma_.

He had just enough time to think _Oh, shit!_

XXXXXXXXXXX

It felt good to tear free.

It felt even better to give oneself permission to land a hard, left hook on the Director's jaw. And it felt _great_ to see the man crash to the ground.

It didn't feel so hot afterwards, though.

 _If Rossi was right…if he wasn't going to fire me…I think I pretty much just made dismissal mandatory._

Hotch stood, shaking as adrenaline ebbed out of his system, panting from exertion as well as overwrought emotion. He glowered at his boss who had the good sense to remain on the floor, rubbing a swelling jaw and keeping a sidelong, wary watch on his assailant. After a moment, a wry half-grin made the Director wince.

"Had enough, Agent?"

The introduction of humor into the situation only served to worsen Aaron's mood. He glared from beneath craggy brows, struggling to tame his respiration. His voice was ragged when it emerged in shades of still-potent rage. "You…had… _NO_ …right…"

"Neither did you, Hotchner." The Director clambered to his knees and pushed himself to a standing position with a grunt. "Neither one of us has any rights." He rubbed his purpling jaw, still keeping a cautious eye on Hotch. "We both gave up most of our rights when we became government property. You know that. This job isn't confined to the walls of the Bureau any more than it's relegated to the hours between nine and five." The ring of command that had animated the Director's words up to that point, faded. With a sigh born of the jaded weariness that was one of the unwelcome perks of his position, he raised his chin and gave Aaron a sorrowful look. "The only one who _does_ have any rights here…is your son."

Hotch felt the familiar clenching of his heart and stomach whenever he thought of how much Jack had had to sacrifice for the sake of his father's career. It drained the last vestiges of combative spirit from him. He hadn't realized he'd been poised to attack; shoulders rounded, hunched in an aggressive crouch, ready to pounce. He straightened; his posture mirroring the Director's, who had clearly abandoned all thought of further physical engagement. "Why are you here?"

The Director glanced toward Hotch's living room and the couch it contained. He nodded toward it. "Sit down." When the Unit Chief hesitated, verging on bristling at being ordered about in his own home, the note of command re-entered his boss's voice. "SIT. Now." Another, smaller, more mournful sigh, then... "Please."

Aaron wavered for a moment, but the only options open to him were either to comply or to try to evict the Director from his home. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have been forgiven punching his boss out. He doubted the kindness would be extended a second time. An instinct for self-preservation made him choose compliance. Hotch edged his way over to the couch and took a reluctant seat.

He tensed when the Director sat beside him, body canted so he was partially facing Aaron.

"I'm no psychiatrist, Agent, but I've been looking into your situation, and I'm asking you now…what are you feeling? Right now, at this moment, without analyzing it…what are you feeling?"

Hotch blinked, momentarily baffled by the tangent his boss's visit had taken.

"Now, Agent Hotchner! Spit it out!"

"I'm…I'm…" _Aw, what the hell…_ "I'm so pissed off at you, _Sir_ , I'd like to tear your head off."

"Good."

" _What_?!"

The Director paused, searching Aaron's eyes, hoping he had the ability to explain what seemed clear to him. At least, it had seemed clear when he was reviewing Hotch's dossier. "Look, son…I wanted to provoke you; to get a genuine, emotional reaction. Partly, because I think you're all tangled up with too many people leaving their footprints on you. You need to release some of what's eating at you. It'll make that tangle a little simpler; a little easier to unravel. It'll bleed off some of the excess emotion that's building along with your frustration the longer this therapy procedure goes on."

"So you're saying coming to my home to pick a fight with me is a _good_ thing?" Sarcasm dripped from Hotch's words. In truth, he wasn't sure if he didn't believe the Director's motives, or if he just didn't _want_ to believe them. It would feel good to nurse his anger at the man a little while longer.

"Look, it's not all that complicated from where I'm standing." The older man spoke slowly, choosing his words. "You have trust issues. A large part of that is normal, considering what you've been through. But some of it's not normal. It's been manufactured, whether by that Lewis character tampering with you on a pharmaceutical level, or by the Bureau going off on a wild goose chase and bringing your reputation and loyalty into question…either way, it's damaging. Misplaced trust can be one of the most destructive errors a person can suffer. But you can't function without trust. You have to be able to let go and rely on others at some point.

"I think it's pretty simple when you get down to it, and maybe, if I'm right, my viewpoint can help you; can give you something to lean on until you feel you're on solid ground again." He raised his brows, giving Hotch a hopeful look.

The Unit Chief didn't look overtly skeptical, so the Director decided to, well… _trust_ in his lack of visible resistance.

"Agent Hotchner, your feelings are still running true. We just proved that with legitimate anger. So, if you start to doubt yourself, there's an emotional touchstone that can help keep you anchored. You can trust in your love for your son. In fact, I'll go one better: you can trust in anything that springs from love, whether it's for family, friends, your job…" His voice lowered. He sounded more like an old man with too much of darkness in his life. "I know something about the techniques of brainwashing. I know how to…alter…people. I've seen it done. I've seen anger, hate, lust, greed…all of them created and implanted in a person's psyche.

"But I've never seen anyone or anything that could touch honest love in a man's soul. Can't create it. Can't twist it."

For a moment Aaron felt his lungs freeze, unable to draw breath. _That man Lewis set up to kill his son…it backfired. Maybe that deep a love wouldn't respond to whatever he did. Maybe the others who killed a spouse…a parent…maybe they didn't have that pure, unadulterated love that that father had for his child. Maybe there's something to this…_ He allowed himself to harbor a little bit of hope that there might be a roadmap out of his personal hell.

The Director was still speaking.

"I'm taking a special interest in your recovery, Agent Hotchner. I've had my eye on you for a while. You've demonstrated a depth of character that gives me hope. There are plenty of people in the Bureau who operate on ambition and ego. Very few operate on nobility. I think you're one of those few. I'm not about to throw you away. Not without a fight." He chuckled, wincing as his jaw objected. "Hell, someday you might be sitting in my chair."

Hotch was silent, but the Director saw a qualitative change in the man's demeanor. A thoughtfulness. A willingness to at least consider what he was being told.

"Well…I've done what I came here to do, and I've had my say." The Director of the FBI rose, straightened his clothing, rubbed his jaw where a livid bruise had appeared, and made his way toward the front door. When he'd reached it, he turned back for a moment, giving Hotch a sly look.

"So…after this little meeting…do you trust me, Agent Hotchner?"

Aaron pulled himself straighter, raising his chin and narrowing his eyes. "No, Sir. Not really."

The Director nodded. "Good. As it should be. But you should know that _I_ trust _you_. So give that some thought."

He walked out into the night, leaving his Unit Chief with plenty to occupy his mind. As he strode toward his car, he passed a BMW and smiled, nodding at the man behind the wheel who was trying not to be noticeable.

 _Knew you'd be keeping watch, Agent Rossi. Now go talk to your friend._

 _Maybe you can help lead him back to where he can trust himself, too…_


	66. Visceral vs Vocal

Hotch remained on the couch, watching the front door for a full minute in the wake of the Director's departure.

He half-expected the man to come back with a goon squad of henchmen bent on taking him into custody for decking his boss. _I don't trust him. And yet, I work for him and I take his orders. How messed up is that?_

When the sound of footsteps returning in force didn't materialize, the Unit Chief bowed his head, resting his brow against arms crossed over his knees. _He said he trusts_ _ **me**_ _. How can he? He's the one who gave the order to have me investigated. He's the one who had to have enough doubts about me to have me arrested._

Hotch shivered with the aftermath of too much emotion, too much adrenaline. He didn't hear the light tap at the door, nor did he give a moment's thought to not having locked it behind the Director.

 _He knows that Jack's a victim of all this, but it ends there. He doesn't have any advice on how to help my son. He didn't really apologize for that either. Just acknowledged it. And all that about being able to rely on love as the one feeling that can't be twisted…? What's up with that? How does the concept of love have any place at all inside the walls of the Bureau?_

With a soft moan, Hotch rocked himself a little; desperate for comfort. His voice was small and lost when he murmured to himself, "I don't understand. I don't know what to do…I'm all alone and I don't know what to do…"

Adrenaline surged to the fore again when two hands descended on his shoulders. With a sharp gasp, Hotch reared back, thinking he'd been right; the Director or his operatives had come to enact a repeat performance…forcing him to his knees and cuffing him at gunpoint. The charges this time assault and battery…and maybe treason.

"Aaron…Aaron…" Rossi's voice was low, the words sympathetic to the portrait of sorrow the younger man presented. "What happened? What did he do to you?" Dave moved around the couch, lowering himself to the space which, minutes before, the Director had occupied.

Hotch gulped air, getting the sudden pulse of fight-or-flight instinct under control. "You scared me. Didn't hear you come in."

"I knocked. Guess your mind was somewhere else, huh?" Rossi's practiced eyes roved over his friend, gathering evidence with professional acumen. _Uh-oh. He's kind of rumpled, physically and emotionally._ His glance fell on the Unit Chief's left hand; the knuckles were abraded, raw patches giving mute testimony to violence. _Double uh-oh._ "Aaron, did you get in a fight? With our Director?"

"Yeah…I guess so." He raised his head for a moment, fixing Dave with an accusatory glare. "But he started it."

It sounded enough like a schoolboy trying to justify an unfortunate playground incident to bring a faint smile to Rossi's lips. He wished he hadn't been trying to escape notice when the Director had left; wished he'd taken a good, hard look at him. But in the dim street illumination, he probably wouldn't have been able to see if the man sported any of Hotch's handiwork anyway. Still, those damaged knuckles…he had to ask…

"So…did'ja land any punches where it would count? Make it worth whatever disciplinary measures they decide to dish out?"

"That's the weird thing though, Dave." The Unit Chief's head lowered again, weighed down by the uncertainty of what this meeting had meant, and of what might follow, and of his own inability to decipher the situation. "He didn't seem mad when he left. It was almost as though he _wanted_ me to hit him…like I was meeting his expectations or something." Hotch's voice grew small again. "He said stuff about trust and brainwashing techniques and…and love…of all things…love!" He bent, returning his face to the cradle of his crossed arms, rendering his next words muffled. "He said he trusted me, which makes no sense. I mean, he had me investigated. He sent a team to take me down here in my home with Jack not three feet away." A tremor shuddered through him, making him huddle in on himself even more. "I don't understand. Dave…I don't understand."

Rossi heard the last as a plea for help. Or maybe just comfort. He'd rarely seen anyone look so solitary. He scooted a little closer and rested an arm across Hotch's bent shoulders, cupping the far one and kneading the tense muscles. "Okay. I get it. You're confused about all this, so let's break it down. Maybe I can help you see it from a different perspective."

Hotch raised his head a few inches, just enough to fix the older man with a hopeful eye.

"When I talked to him, Aaron, he did mention trying to provoke you."

The Unit Chief's expression turned incredulous. "To what end? And you didn't warn me?"

"He did it to help you work off some of the anger and injustice from years of losing bits of yourself in the name of being an agent. He did it because he wants to help you." Rossi hurried on, trying to slip his explanation in before Hotch forged new reasons to distrust anyone, especially his best and oldest friend. "I wanted to warn you! But, if he was right…if you needed to blow off some steam…the only way it would have any value at all is if it came out of the blue; took you totally by surprise."

In the pregnant pause that followed, Aaron stared, mind caught up in a frantic race to test the veracity of Dave's explanation; twisting and turning it while both seeking and dreading any faults big enough to shatter it into fragments that could portend the end of his career. Rossi gave him time, filling it by going to the kitchen and assembling an ice pack. When he returned and wrapped a dish towel filled with ice around Hotch's damaged knuckles, Hotch met him with a guarded expression.

"It doesn't hang together, Dave. The things he said…there's no underlying logic to them. How can he trust an agent he was ready to incarcerate and prosecute?"

Rossi took a deep breath and resumed his seat beside his Unit Chief. He leaned over, bracing his elbow on his knees, mirroring the younger man's pose.

"You're thinking about this from one direction, Aaron: from an agent's perspective. I think the Director's taking a larger, longer, more inclusive view." Hotch gave his head a faint shake, but didn't interrupt; eyes focused on his friend with an intensity that fell just short of glaring. Dave continued. "It's like this…you got into the FBI and the BAU because of the man you were. First and foremost. There are plenty of applicants who have the necessary skills and background. Most don't make it in. You did. I think the Director's looking at that man right now. Not the agent."

Hotch's dark eyes flickered back and forth, still searching, still trying to find solid footing on a path that would gain him access to the Director's subtle thought process.

"Look, Aaron…" Rossi held his own gaze steady, offering an assurance he felt more and more with each word he spoke. "…I think this whole altercation was a big vote of confidence in you. I think our Director knows you're a fine man and a fine father even before you're a fine agent. When he said he trusts you, I'd bet anything that he meant he trusts you to work your way out of whatever restraints and damage have been laid on you. Because inside, at your very core, no one can alter the best of you. And the quickest way to test that is to touch on the love in there…" He reached over and tapped on the center of Aaron's chest. "I'm guessing he went for something deep. He went for the love you have for your son."

Rossi saw a glimmer of surprise in Hotch's regard.

"That's it, isn't it? He used Jack to provoke you. I'm right, aren't I?" Aaron gave a slow nod, his eyes growing thoughtful as he reviewed what had happened so quickly that, at the time, the moment hadn't lent itself to analysis.

Dave felt relief welling up within. _I'm on the right track. Now, come on, Aaron, get on board with me._ "I think the Director wanted to demonstrate to you where the source of your strength resides. And…" He directed a sly grin at the ice pack wound around Hotch's bruised knuckles. "…just how accessible that strength is."

After a moment's reflection, Hotch glanced toward the door through which his boss had exited. His lips twisted in something that was more grimace than grin. "He could have just told me."

"No. You needed someone to break through to your center, Aaron. He gave you something visceral rather than vocal. He also gave you a little something that'll serve as a reminder for a few days." He nodded at the ice pack again.

"Maybe…maybe…" Hotch pulled his injured hand to his chest, using the other to press the soothing chill against it as he mulled things over. After a few minutes, he gave Rossi a glance that was almost shy. "You really think the head of the FBI took the time and knowingly risked being beaten because he thought it would do me some good?"

Dave's grin grew. "Can you think of another explanation?"

Aaron's lips twitched in amusement, and when he shook his head and let Rossi pull him into a one-armed hug as they sat side by side on the sofa, Dave knew he'd gotten through. He drew Hotch closer and chuckled, stretching his neck and resting his chin on top of the forest of cowlicks, willing Hotch to feel protected and secure in a world that was anything but.

"He did something Fletcher couldn't, Aaron. He said 'screw all the talking' and he made it real for you. And you didn't disappoint him." Rossi felt the tension in the younger man's body ease. It felt like victory. He squeezed him tighter for a moment. "That's my boy, Aaron. That's my boy…"

And this time being called 'boy' didn't feel like an insult at all.


	67. Like Father, Like Son

Jessica Brooks heaved a great sigh.

Lounging in a chintz-covered armchair with a mismatched ottoman pressed into service to support her feet, she looked the very picture of relaxation. But as she cast glances toward the door behind which her nephew had retreated for the evening, her mind was spinning with worries.

She'd told Jack everything she could recall about Haley; everything age-appropriate that would be of interest at least. More and more she was convinced that the boy didn't really care about his mother's formative years. He'd been a polite audience. Nothing more. She'd seen questions lingering behind his eyes, but he hadn't voiced them. She took that to mean that she wasn't the best person to provide answers.

Jessica was beginning to think the boy had more curiosity about Haley as his mother, than Haley as a girl. _And that needs to come from Aaron. I've told him what I know…that my sister loved him with all her heart, but…_ She shook her head. The stories she thought were so cute about how her sister had cuddled and cared for her baby seemed to make Jack uncomfortable. _Guess I can't blame him. What kid wants to hear about how his diaper was changed or what ruses had to be used to get him to eat pureed peas?_

She glanced at her watch. It wasn't very late, but she didn't think calling Aaron was a good idea. If he'd been free to deal with family matters, he wouldn't have farmed Jack out to her again for the night. _But I'll have to talk to him soon. Tomorrow. Haley said getting him to talk was like prying open a clam that had been sealed with super-glue, but…_ She pressed her lips together in a determined line, unconsciously resembling the aforementioned close-mouthed clam.

 _Get ready to be pried open, Aaron. It's time._

Her eyelids drifted closed, as she began planning how she'd approach her reticent brother-in-law.

They lifted when she heard Jack's bedroom door creak open.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack's mind was awhirl, too.

He'd been a patient listener while Aunt Jess recounted tales about his mother that, if he were honest, just plain didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore, except digging deeper into the caverns and niches surrounding his mother's death, and the time leading up to it, that adults were keeping barricaded.

He understood what his father had told him about some things being too mature for kids, just like the way movies were judged and assigned ratings. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there were plenty of things he deserved to know…had a right to know…that were being kept from him. He felt he was working in a vacuum. He didn't know enough to be able to formulate the questions that needed answering. His anger and frustration at everything, even himself, was on the rise.

So much so, that earlier that day at school, he'd thought he would burst. He'd been unable to concentrate; a problem that was happening more and more. He'd always believed that it was a matter of honor to keep a stoic façade when inside he was a mass of turmoil. He had never questioned why.

Until today.

Jewel, his artistically gifted classmate, had inflicted her sunny presence on him once again.

"Hey." She'd plopped down beside him at lunch, ignoring the rolling eyes of Tommy Delgado who preferred all-male company and conversation that revolved around soccer and super-heroes.

"Hey." Jack realized he'd never extended a proper thank-you for help on the drawing he'd had to do for history class. He cleared his throat. "Thanks for…you know…the other day…"

"What? The drawing?" She shrugged, digging into a rather worn brown, paper bag and extracting a pita bread sandwich. "That was nothing."

Tommy's brow furrowed. He didn't consider girls very interesting, but this sounded like something involving his best friend from which he'd been excluded. That was not to be borne. "What was nothing?"

"Nothing was nothing." Jewel gave her head an impatient shake, setting the braids she'd adorned that morning with small, white feathers dancing. She didn't dislike Tommy, but there was no point in discussing things like art and inner freedom with him. He wouldn't get it.

"Oh, come _ON_ …"

"It was just some stuff we had to do for Mrs. Caldwell." Jack stepped in, rescuing both friends from further exploration of their basic incompatibilities. "For history…ya know?"

"Oh…yeah." Tommy sniffed. "Artsy-fartsy history for special kids."

"Hey, this whole _school's_ for special kids." Jack turned his attention back to Jewel, whose sandwich had an interesting aroma. He let one eyebrow rise with wary curiosity. "What's that?"

"Humus."

The Hotchner men weren't very adventurous eaters. Perhaps if Haley had still been in the mix, Jack's culinary education would have extended beyond the standard, solid fare that his father gravitated toward thanks to time, convenience and a stomach that rebelled in direct proportion to the stresses of his career.

Jewel ducked her head, hiding her amusement at her classmate's expression. "Here. Try some." She broke off small portions of her lunch, offering it to both boys.

"No, thanks." Tommy broadcast his disinterest by taking a tremendous bite of his own ham sandwich.

Jack leaned closer. "Humus. That's mid-eastern, right?"

"You've never tried it? Really?" Her smile grew at his uncertain expression. "Well, go ahead. It's good!"

A cautious bite later, Jack met Jewel's eyes with an appreciative grin of his own. She shook her head with barely suppressed humor. "Can't believe you didn't know what humus was."

"Hey! I knew. I just never tried it before." Young Hotchner lifted his chin in erudite observation. "There's a difference."

Jewel shook her head again, still amused. "I just get the feeling that there's a lot more to you than maybe even _you_ know, Jack. That drawing was pretty good when you let yourself go. I didn't do anything except tell you to loosen up a little." She shrugged. "You really didn't need anyone to tell you. You can do that on your own."

Tommy's snort intruded. "Wouldn't bet on it."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Jack had been enjoying the conversation with Jewel. He hadn't thought Tommy was following it at all.

"It means your dad's an FBI agent."

This time Jewel spoke up. "So?"

"Soooo…" Said with the arrogance of inside knowledge probably acquired by eavesdropping on parental conversations. "…Feds follow orders and keep secrets." Tommy's voice grew smug. "They know how."

Jack was silent. _Like father, like son_ whispered through his mind.

Jewel's brows knit in quizzical consternation. "So what?" Tommy's reply was to give a nod rife with significance toward Jack, as though the equation of familial behavior was so obvious it didn't need explanation. Except maybe to a girl.

Jewel's snort was half dismissive, half contemptuous. "That's Jack's father. Not Jack."

She returned to her humus sandwich.

Hotch's son spent the rest of lunchtime making his first foray into wondering where his father ended and he himself began.

The unaccustomed self-analysis lasted the rest of the day and into the evening. He'd listened to a few more stories about his mother from Aunt Jess, but hadn't really heard them. At last, he'd retreated to the room she kept ready for him and continued to explore what Jewel's 'not Jack' might mean.

It was useless. He was getting nowhere. He had to admit he needed an adult's perspective.

And there was only one of those available at the moment.

Jack opened his door and went out to Jessica.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Your father's a good man, Jack. A _really_ good man."

Jessica stared at her nephew, unsure of what he'd meant when he'd shuffled into the living room, stood before her and mumbled, "I'm not like Dad. I mean, I don't _have_ to be like him…do I? I mean…" And then the poor kid had fumbled to a halt, looking distraught.

"Your dad is a _fine_ man!"

"I _know_!" The look Hotch's son gave her told Jess she'd misunderstood. Whatever the child's concern was, it wasn't a matter of Aaron having plummeted from hero to a lesser species. She leaned forward, frowning.

"Jack, what's wrong?"

"I don't _know_!" As usual, his determination had melted before the necessity of finding the right words to express the tangle of questions preying on his mind.

"But whatever it is, is about your father?"

"Yes…NO…No, it's not, but sort of…yeah…kind of…I…"

Jessica felt knots forming in her stomach on her nephew's behalf. She had no idea what was going on, but the toll it was taking on a child who'd already lost too much, been through too much, was evident. The other thing that was evident was that this was a boy who needed his father. Now. Not tomorrow morning or tomorrow after school or whenever Aaron could break free of his job and his therapy and his own troubles.

She watched Jack's posture sag in defeat as he failed once more to communicate things too deep inside.

Enough. Jessica rose from her chair, grabbed her purse with one hand, and her nephew with the other.

"Come on, Jack. We're gonna go find your dad."

 _And I don't care what you had planned for this evening, Aaron. The bad guys will have to wait. You couldn't help it when you lost Haley. But this?...This you_ _ **better**_ _help._


	68. Home Again, Home Again

Hotch was a meticulous parent.

When he consigned his son to Jessica's care, he made sure she knew how to reach him in case of emergency, no matter where events might take him. He was very good about keeping the list of numbers and addresses and names necessary to contact him up to date.

But Jessica wasn't about to use the phone. It would be too easy for her to cave when she'd hear the worry and stress in Aaron's voice. _Oh, yeah, sorry, Aaron…No, really, nothing's wrong. Just wondered how you were doing…_ She pressed her lips into a thin line. _Not this time, mister. I know you're stressed, but so is your son! We're going to sit down together and get both of you on the right track. No excuses!_

XXXXXXXXXX

Jack was quieter than usual. He wrapped himself in a cloak of reserve as a buffer against this situation. Somehow he felt guilty for precipitating their abrupt departure from his aunt's house. If he'd known she'd react like this, he'd have kept his mouth shut and burrowed deeper into himself. _That's what Dad would do…Just get through it. Whatever 'it' is._

But then, Jewel's simple statement that Jack wasn't his father and shouldn't be judged as such played through his mind. He clung to it like a lifeline; a slender thread cast out in the sea of confusion and half-formed questions and disjointed memories that refused to leave him in peace.

He slumped lower in his seat and resigned himself to whatever drama was about to add to his troubles. By the grim set of his aunt's jaw, he couldn't imagine the encounter between her and Dad would be a pleasant one.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jessica had been determined to check out each of the locales on Hotch's list of where to contact him in case of emergency. But she headed toward his house first. Partly because she still needed time to develop a plan and the route to Aaron's place was a nice, known quantity that might calm her and maybe even lend her some insight on how to give the troubled Hotchner boys what they needed.

Her brows rose in equal parts gratitude and surprise to see lots of lights on and Aaron's car parked in the drive.

Jack gave a relieved sigh when he recognized Rossi's car parked a short distance away. There was only a small twinge of resentment that Dad was home and, from what he could see, there'd been no reason to be sent away to Aunt Jess. Then, an even deeper place emitted a small twinge of apprehension: home was where murder and mayhem could happen so easily. No place was really safe. There was just no knowing what might be happening behind his front door.

And with all the mysteries that adults refused to explain, he couldn't assume there'd been no reason…no danger…that required he visit his aunt.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

This time Hotch heard the front door open even though there'd been no knock.

This time he wasn't so mired in his own misery that he was oblivious to the rest of the world. After talking to Rossi, he was calmer. But that calm dissipated the instant he saw Jack trailing in Jessica's wake.

He shook off the arm Dave still had around his shoulders and bolted to his feet. "What's wrong?!"

"Nothing, Dad."

" _Every_ thing, Aaron." Jessica's lips were pursed; a sign that she had either reached a point where she was ready to engage in battle, or had sucked on a lemon.

Hotch was willing to bet it was the former.

"Well…" Rossi stood and stretched the kinks out of his back while giving Aaron's sister-in-law a critical once-over. "…I'm getting the feeling this is a family affair that doesn't need me to…"

"No!" Jack's exclamation was forceful, bordering on panicked. "No…I want…can…can you stay, Mr. Rossi? Please?" He turned eyes filled with entreaty on Hotch. "Can he, Dad? Please?" All three adults were staring at him with varying looks of puzzlement and concern. He wasn't sure if he could explain why he wanted his father's best friend on hand, but some deep instinct told him it could be useful. Maybe even life-saving for sorting out whatever was so wrong, wrong, wrong…

Aaron's worried glance turned to Dave. Rossi shrugged. "Sure. I got nowhere I have to be 'cept giving Mudge his evening treat."

Hotch gave a grateful nod, then went to his son and dropped to one knee, bringing him to eye level. "Okay, Buddy. We're all here. What's goin' on? What happened?"

But when it came down to it, Jack couldn't say. He opened his mouth, stuttered a few syllables, and realized that standing in front of Dad only increased the storm inside him. He saw his own tortured eyes reflected in his father's. The pressure built, and… "I wanna know about Mom!"

There. It was out.

And it did absolutely no good.

It had taken everything he had to blurt out his need, and there was utter incomprehension in Daddy's deep, brown eyes.

Jessica watched what she considered abortive, ineffectual communication…the kind only males could produce with irritating regularity…and once again decided she'd step in and save the day. "Aaron, he needs you to talk about your relationship with Haley, and…"

"NO!" Jack's exclamation was even more forceful than the one that had kept Rossi, who was being as unobtrusive as he could by resuming his place on the couch and staying silent, present. "No! I want to know the stuff you won't tell me!"

Puzzled, Hotch rocked back just a little. "Buddy, we talked about that. Remember? I told you…"

"No!" The boy took a deeper breath than you'd think such young lungs could hold. "I get it, Dad. I know there's stuff that's so awful you can't tell me. I know. But there's other stuff besides that…that…" His burst of energy ran out, leaving him breathless and verging on being humiliated by his own lack of control.

Rossi's smooth, calm voice was a welcome intrusion. "I think I understand what's goin' on." Jessica and Jack looked at him. Hotch remained focused on his child. "You want the whole story, right, kid? And you kind of know some, but some of it's just out of reach. Every time you try, it just gets fuzzy and slips away?" Jack gave a slow, cautious nod. "You're not asking for the really bad stuff. You want the stuff you were there for, but can't string together so it makes sense." This time it wasn't a question; it was a very sad, somewhat weary statement.

"Yeah."

"Okay." Rossi patted the couch cushion beside him. "C'mere and let's see if, between us, your dad and I can help you figure things out." He gave Jessica a lopsided smile. "You're welcome to stay, but I have a feeling this might be just old stuff to you."

Jack's aunt wanted him to know she'd do anything to help him, but, in truth, she didn't want to rehash her sister's darkest days. She wavered between wanting to leave and familial loyalty.

"It's okay, Aunt Jess. Thanks for bringing me home. You didn't have to."

Her eyes misted. "Yes, I did, sweetie. You needed your dad." She shifted her gaze to Hotch. "…but I don't really want to just _go_ …"

"S'okay. We'll be okay." Aaron stood. As Jack went to the couch to take a seat beside Rossi, Hotch saw his sister-in-law to the door. "Thanks for bringing him, Jess." He stopped her on the threshold, making sure her eyes were locked on his. "Thanks for everything. You know I couldn't do this without you."

She didn't want to cry. Somehow this man always made her feel so unspeakably sad. She bit her lip and shook her head as she nudged her way past him. "Just let me know if you need anything else. Either of you. Love you both…" She tossed the last bit over her shoulder, glad to escape, but questioning her desire to do so. _If it's all too much sometimes for me…dredging up memories of the last months of Haley's life…then how can little Jack be expected to handle it?!_

She headed for her car, hoping that Rossi had as firm a handle on Jack's problem as he seemed to. And hoping neither man would say _too_ much.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch lingered at the door until Jessica drove away.

He always felt on the verge of disappointing her in some way. He gave a soft, cynical snort. _Gee, you think that might have something to do with being responsible for all the stuff that led up to her sister's death? Think there might just maybe be a connection there?_ Tamping down guilt and regret for Haley's murder that he'd become resigned to harboring for the rest of his life, he closed the door and looked toward where Dave and Jack waited, side by side.

"Aaron. Come here." Rossi tracked his friend with careful, knowing eyes. Others might see the Unit Chief as stoic and humorless. Dave saw him as shy, wry and, unfortunately, often self-destructive. "Have a seat." He jutted his chin toward the vacant space on Jack's other side.

Hotch snuggled down, leaning into his son just enough to feel like a big, warm, protective presence. He bent his neck and snuffled at the boy's hair, taking comfort in the scent that was like no other; it would always touch his heart with love so fierce it scared him. "Okay, Buddy. Ask me anything… _any_ thing."

It was what Jack wanted.

He hated that words froze when his eyes fastened on the towel wrapped around his father's knuckles. Something _had_ happened tonight after all. Something that was probably the reason he'd been sent to Aunt Jess. Something bad. It was clearly over now, but still…

"Buddy?" Hotch nuzzled down a little more. He discarded the ice pack Rossi had given him in favor of holding his son closer, letting it drop to the floor.

Rossi was the only one who saw Jack's eyes awash with horror at the sight of the raw, abraded flesh. He frowned, mind clicking through its professional paces. _The kid's seen scrapes and cuts aplenty. You don't play soccer or get through childhood without them. So why's he looking like the monster under the bed just popped out?_

Dave's entire body slumped when he reached the end of the equation. _Oh, no. It's because this is on Aaron's body. He's seeing Daddy covered with bruises and blood and telling him everything's fine and he's fine and the world is fine. And even barely four years old, the kid knew nothing would ever be fine again._ Rossi closed his eyes for a moment, gathering emotional strength.

 _Okay, Aaron. You go first. But if you falter…if you fall…I'll catch you. I'll catch you both._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The Director heaved a weary sigh.

It was something he did every time he reached the sanctuary of his home. There were no easy days at work; only gradations of immeasurable difficulty as he juggled the consequences of decisions that he knew would haunt him long after he'd left his post. This day's end was worse than usual thanks to the physical abuse he'd suffered.

He rubbed his tender jaw. Hotchner had a good, strong punch when properly motivated.

He'd been rerunning the encounter ever since leaving, ever since seeing David Rossi loitering in his fancy BMW, waiting to see what damage had been inflicted on his protégé. He hoped the older man could guide the younger to someplace beneficial. _And maybe I should have done more…given the guy a little more to go on instead of leaving him with what amounted to a riddle about trust._

He tossed his briefcase onto a convenient hall table and shed his jacket. Eyeing the liquor cabinet, he sighed again. Before he could relax, before he could get some ice for his jaw and for a tall glass of whiskey, he had to check his messages…see what new crisis was looming, or what panicked official was threatening or demanding or just plain whining.

He fished his phone out of a pocket and called his office. The messages were no worse than he'd expected. But there was one that made his brows rise.

It sounded like a ray of hope.

Some doctor named Mason who said he wanted to discuss Agent Hotchner's treatment. Said he had more expertise than anyone in the field of Moral Injury Syndrome. Sounded like he'd practically discovered the malady.

Said he wanted to help.

 _Might be just what Hotchner needs. I'll call the doc tomorrow. Have a little chat._

The Director felt a little better when he finally poured himself that tall glass of whiskey.


	69. In a Father's Arms

A couple of Hotchners and a Rossi occupied a couch in a Quantico townhouse, cloaked in awkward silence.

Aaron's eyes lifted to connect with Dave's over Jack's head. The older man shrugged, lips twitching in a grim half-smile. "You're on, kid."

He'd meant it as an opening line for Hotch. But Jack spoke first. It wasn't the 'kid' Rossi'd intended, but he'd take it. He'd decided his role would be facilitator, encourager, and, if necessary, referee. But once the ball was rolling, he'd let it go wherever conversation kicked it.

"Dad, how come the pictures you have of Mom don't look like how I remember her?"

It was a safe enough question, but it made Hotch blink. He'd been clenching his stomach muscles, expecting mention of 'George the Bad Guy' or some gruesome, blood-drenched remnant of that horrible day when they'd lost Haley….he could almost hear what he was sure would be Rossi's correction… _You mean that day you_ _ **saved**_ _your son…_

"How…how do you remember Mom?"

A pause. A distant glaze settled over the child's eyes as he searched the very edges of remembrance. "She…I think she had dark hair. Kinda shoulder length?" Jack couldn't help looking toward a small framed picture on a bookshelf.

Hotch's eyes followed, settling on a young, laughing woman with short, blonde hair.

"I kinda remember her sorta like that, and like the way she is from the movies and stuff we have, but…" Jack's sad, brown gaze returned to his father's. "…but mostly not. It's like the movies and pictures are pushing the other stuff away, and that bugs me, 'cause…" He dropped his head and his eyes. "… 'cause what I remember must be wrong?"

It was definitely a question; one that Aaron would never have guessed was troubling his child. He'd thought by revisiting their old home movies and the pictures that Haley had squirreled away in a scrapbook, he'd been keeping her memory alive. He'd thought it was the kind of thing Jessica had been hoping he'd do. But now…now it carved a pit in his heart, thinking those carefully orchestrated 'Let's Remember Mom' sessions had been a source of conflict rather than comfort.

Eyes that now had a touch of horror in their depths fixed on his son. Hotch gave his head a slow shake. "No…No, Buddy. You're not wrong. I just didn't think…" _What? Didn't think that the images of Haley that were strongest for Jack weren't the strongest for me? Didn't take into account that it was brown-haired Haley who coincided with the development of a child's memory? The age when recall solidifies and begins to fill the book of one's entire lifetime of remembrance?_

Aaron pulled himself up and let a deep breath untighten his chest. He would be strong for his son. He would go wherever he had to and make sure Jack knew it was okay to ask him anything. He had a sense that what he did now would form a pattern that would affect them throughout their relationship as father and son. He was building something they both could stand on.

"You're not wrong. Mom changed how she looked because it was safer that way." Hotch risked a quick glance at Rossi, drawing comfort from the older man's steady gaze, his slight nod. "Do you remember when…" The baritone voice cracked, but recovered. "…when Mom left with you?"

The expression on Jack's face was clearly troubled. "Dad, I'm not sure. You were gone so much and…and every time you'd say the same stuff…" Listening, Hotch's gut churned with guilt and pain, but he kept silent. "…you always said you loved me and you were proud of me."

"I do…I am…always…" It was barely a hoarse whisper, but the honest depth of emotion in his father's voice brought a glimmer of a smile to the son's lips.

"Not to interrupt, but can I say something?" Rossi had been keeping careful vigil. His professional skills turned up to high volume; reading every nuance and flutter. Both Hotchners raised their eyes to his. He addressed Jack first.

"Kid, I just wanna say that because of your age, it's not just the movie rating thing your Dad explained; the some-things-aren't-fit-for-younger-viewers idea at play here. It's also like you're walking in on the middle of that movie. For your Dad and me and older guys in general, the story is a lot longer. For you, it's like you came in and took your seat after the show was already running. You'll see what everyone else is seeing, but it won't make sense until you can pick up the plot line… Get it?"

Jack's nod was slow and solemn. It made Rossi think of Hotch when he'd listen to advice, knowing it came from someone who'd seen and done more than his own years could accommodate. It was a polite response, but didn't necessarily guarantee comprehension.

"And you…" Dave turned compassionate eyes on his Unit Chief. "…it's going to be hard for you to separate yourself enough to see things from Jack's viewpoint. I mean, you can't edit down what happened to you; at least not yet." Rossi's tone grew soft with sadness. "I know how hard things hit you, Aaron. I know you're still hurting. Maybe now would be a good time to just listen to Jack and try to un-know your viewpoint and take in the events and people that were flowing around him without really touching him. Until the end, anyway. And about that..." He paused to choose his words, wanting to be sure neither party would interpret them as criticism. "…remember that trauma can affect recall. And, God knows, you both went through some serious shocks. Accuracy might take a hit after all that happened."

Hotch nodded, took a deep breath that didn't do anything this time to loosen his anxiety, and braced himself to hear his son's viewpoint, his son's truths. "Okay, Buddy. I'm listening."

Rossi settled back and watched both Hotchners close their eyes; concentration creating twin creases in the brows of father as well as son.

"Dad, I don't know how all the stuff I remember is supposed to tie together. I remember…I remember…" Jack's throat tightened as he dipped into a maelstrom of half-formed memories. "…I remember one time that you told me how proud you were of me that kind of stands out. 'Cause I was scared, I think. There was…something…You were hurt!" His eyes snapped open, seeing things that no longer existed, but still held powerful sway over him. "You said stuff to me, but mostly I was scared 'cause you were all bandaged up and you kept telling me you were okay, but I knew you weren't…I _knew!_ "

Hotch's eyes were open now, too. Staring at his son, he tried to swallow past his own jumble of emotions. It felt like another instance of his paternal-protective instinct gone wrong. He started to say 'I'm sorry,' but Rossi reached across the back of the couch, past Jack, and tamed Hotch with a touch. It was a tactile reminder that he needed to listen. The time for talking would come later.

Jack was unaware of the adult subtext playing out literally behind his back. His gaze continued to shift back and forth, tracking memories. "We moved a lot. I don't remember a lot of friends ever 'til here and Tommy DelGado and, uh…" The boy's demeanor turned momentarily shy. "…Jewel."

Rossi's ears pricked forward and he latched onto the slight hesitation preceding the girl's name. If Aaron didn't pick up on it in light of more serious matters, he thought it might be a nice, happier note to bring up later…a possible first romantic interest that was both touching and amusing. _At least to us doddering, jaded old guys. Probably a DEFCON 5 level embarrassment for the kid…_ He pulled himself back from vagrant musings about puppy love; Jack was forging ahead.

"Sometimes I can't breathe, Dad… It feels like…like…I'm frozen still. Like if I move, something really bad might happen. And…and…" Hotch's son's respiration had turned shallow and fast within seconds. Both adults were poised to intervene. Clearly, the boy was experiencing emotional distress. "…and when I hear stuff like…certain noises…I don't know what happens…I kind of…of…go…away…"

Aaron didn't say a word. He ended Jack's desperate, floundering efforts by smothering him in a hug that could only come from a father's arms; that could only be born from the deepest, fiercest paternal love.

It had the power to stop words.

It had the power to make things safe and right again.

It embodied the biggest promise of Hotch's life. _I won't stop until we get this figured out, Jack. I won't rest until I know you're okay. I promise…I promise…I promise…_

He held on until his son's breathing normalized and the trembling in both their bodies subsided. He pulled back just enough to make eye contact; to look deeply into the eyes that were so like his own.

"Okay, kid…you're on." Rossi's soft voice repeated his earlier words, the ones that had kicked things off.

It was Hotch's turn.

Throughout, his arms never loosened.

And Jack kept as still within them as if the things that haunted him commanded it.


	70. Cracks

Hotch kept Jack safe within his arms.

It was a position that allowed him to rest his chin on top of his son's head and breathe in the scent of the child's hair. Somehow it made it easier to speak. It also gave the Unit Chief a direct, visual line to his best friend. And Rossi's eyes were so warm and encouraging and filled with sympathy; like a hug in themselves.

"Everything you remember is right, Buddy. I want you to know that. It's confusing because it's not put together. Like when you dump a jigsaw puzzle out and it's just a jumble of pieces. You need help…and time…to make those pieces into a whole picture." Aaron gulped a steadying breath. "I'll help you put it all together, okay?"

"Even the bad parts?" Jack's small voice was muffled against Daddy's chest.

Hotch's needy eyes sought out Rossi's. The older man gave a slight shrug, a half-nod.

"I don't know, Buddy. I'll have to see when we get to them. But I won't lie. I promise. I'll tell you straight out if it's something I don't want to tell you. And…I'll give you a reason. I won't leave you hanging. We'll understand this whole thing…what happened to us…together."

Aaron's reward was his son snuggling deeper into the hug; the boy's own arms squeezing his gratitude around his father's waist.

A part of Hotch's mind would remain focused on keeping his body, his breathing, under control. It would be too easy to telegraph his own distress. He wanted to be a dependable rock of calm, an anchor for Jack. Not an undercurrent of communicable horror.

Body tamed, the Unit Chief's mind chose to balk. His mouth opened and closed. He blinked. "It's hard to know where to start."

Aaron's own dependable rock, Rossi, gave the answer so typical of his more cavalier attitude. "I find it helps to start at the beginning. Go to the end. Then…stop." Humor crinkled the outer corners of the older man's eyes. "But that's just me."

The gentle push brought out the ghost of a smile on Hotch's lips. It also made everything feel easier, knowing he and Jack weren't alone. Sometimes a best friend was just the thing to keep you tethered to the present when you were traveling roads through your past.

"Okay. Got it." Aaron took a deep, preparatory breath and eased it out in a long, controlled exhale that he hoped communicated calm to his son. "It started before you were born, Jack." He could feel the boy go still, listening with the intensity of a troubled child who wasn't sure if he'd find treasure or torment just around the corner. It made Hotch choose his words as though they were weapons; with great care, knowing they could wound or protect, depending on how they were wielded.

"There was a case that never got solved, and…"

"George? The bad guy? George?"

A beat of dead silence as Aaron met Rossi's eyes. The older man's expression could have been drawn from Hotch's own heart. The likes of the Reaper had no right to inhabit any child's mind in any way, shape, form or name. But he was here. And he must be acknowledged.

"Yeah, Buddy. It was George."

"He killed people."

"Yes."

"Lots of them?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

 _Please don't ask me how many or how he did it…_

Jack's arms squeezed a little tighter. He pulled himself closer, pressing into his father's strong, solid chest and taking comfort in the sound of the heart beating within.

"Buddy, you know my job is to get the bad guys. The _really_ bad ones."

"I know. Like…super villains, kinda." The boy squirmed into a position that would let him look Hotch in the eye. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Tommy thinks you're really cool 'cause of that. A lot of kids at school do, I guess."

"But you don't?" Aaron felt as though his heart were being dipped in concrete; hardening and being rendered incapable of performing its life-giving action. _This is it. This is when my son stops thinking I'm a hero. Knew it had to happen sometime, but…_

Jack's regard was soft and sad; no sign of accusation or disappointment. "They don't get how hard it is. They don't care. They just want to hear about fighting and…and winning. But it's not like that."

"No, Buddy. It's not."

Hotch's child lowered his head once more, burrowing back into his father's arms. "They dunno how scary it is and how brave you have to be…dunno how _really_ good you are."

For a moment Aaron had no words, no response. His eyes filled even as they connected with Rossi's.

The older man's smile was genuinely happy on his friend's behalf. _Whatever else happens tonight, this was worth it, Aaron. You haven't fallen off any pedestals. Instead, your kid's seeing you in a more adult light. Not a super-hero…but a brave man who does his job well. That's an image that'll serve him a lot better throughout his life than a super-hero with a cape and inhuman powers._

"Thanks, Buddy." As tightly controlled as Hotch was striving to be, the two words were all he could choke out without risking his voice going all creaky and emotional. After a few silent minutes, he felt able to continue. "So this crime that happened a long time ago and didn't get solved was because the bad guy…George…made a deal with a policeman. He said he'd stop committing crimes…stop hurting people…if the policeman would stop looking for him. Everything would just stop."

He felt Jack stir in his arms. "But it didn't."

"For a while it did, but…" Try as he might, Aaron couldn't keep his respiration and heartbeat from changing. _PTSD…Dr. Fletcher called it alright…_ The sensation of his son's small hand pressing against his chest, feeling the pounding that couldn't be controlled, knowing Daddy was getting upset, only served to increase the stress. He had to gasp. Breath was growing too short. He trembled a little, although it felt like an earthquake as he tried to stifle the reaction.

"Kid…" Rossi's soft voice intervened. "…this is part of why your Dad is seeing a doctor. Sometimes it's hard to leave stuff behind even though it's over. It's kind of like being caught in a net. You need someone to help cut you free. Understand?" It was a big psychological leap for a child to grasp, but Dave felt the need to speak up. If nothing else, it would give Hotch a chance to take a couple of breaths.

Jack surprised them all. Even himself.

"Like you don't know why, but you just _know_ something bad's gonna happen? And when you hear stuff or feel stuff, you know it's not real, but it's _worse_ than real 'cause you can't tell anyone about it? 'Cause you can't explain it?"

That did it.

Hotch's control flew out the window, or maybe it exited him through the widening crack in his heart. _My son is hurting! I'm useless and my son is hurting!_

Aaron contracted into himself, engulfing his child as though he could leach the boy's pain and confusion out; could take it into himself. He emitted one, gruff sob, shivered, and then, as Rossi watched, seemed to draw from an iron, inner strength, willing himself back from his own distress in favor of dealing with Jack's. But before he could choke out any words, the youngest Hotchner spoke up again.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

Aaron's voice was hoarse, but only for a syllable or two. "Sorry?...Why…what…what are you sorry about?"

"When we talk about stuff like this it makes you sad. I'm sorry. We can stop."

"No! No, Buddy…we _should_ talk about it. I want to. It's just…I didn't know what you were going through." Hotch pulled Jack in close and once again rested his chin on top of the boy's head. He granted himself a few minutes to snuffle his son's hair. It was one of the strongest scent-memories Hotch would ever have. It brought up pride and joy and all the best things that he and Haley had experienced together. There was nothing of Foyet or Mr. Scratch or his own father in it. It was only innocence and the kind of love that demanded and caged and scared and blessed you all at once.

Hotch didn't know that Jack felt the same way as he pressed his face against his father's chest. The boy's words wouldn't have attained as sophisticated a description. All he knew was that Daddy was big and strong and brave.

The broken part of him whispered that that still didn't mean Daddy could keep him safe.

XXXXXXXXXX

On a couch in a townhouse in Quantico, cracks started to show in a couple of Hotchners, while a Rossi stayed close in case the cracks spread and they shattered.


	71. Delving Deep

"You guys wanna take a break?"

Rossi wondered if the father and son before him, wrapped up as they were in each other's arms and each other's needs, might benefit from letting things settle and cool.

"Jack?" Hotch looked down and met his boy's eyes staring back at him. The expression in their depths took his breath as completely as if his lungs had been crusted with ice. What looked out at him was too old; had seen too much. Aaron wondered what his own eyes revealed as Jack searched them.

"I'm okay if you're okay, Dad."

 _He's calling me 'Dad' more and more often than 'Daddy.' 'Daddy pops out when he's scared or upset. But my 'Daddy' days are numbered…_ A chill swept through Hotch. Maybe it came from his ice-bound lungs. Maybe it was from the odd sensation that he and Jack had done this before. About something completely different. As different people. _Another life?_ The Unit Chief shook his head and took a sharp inhale, freeing his lungs and breaking free, also, of whatever spell-like thing had reached out for him.

"Okay, Buddy. I'm okay. But you tell me if you want to stop."

The boy nodded and burrowed back into his father's embrace. Hotch tried to forget what he'd decided was stress-induced _déjà vu_ , and took a much steadier, deeper breath before continuing.

"So the bad guy, George, made this deal with the policeman."

"But he lied."

"No. He kept his promise. No more people got hurt."

"But…but _MOM!_...YOU!"

Hotch hugged tighter. "There's more to it, Buddy. But we can stop…?"

"No…" The tension that had invaded Jack's small body made him tremble against his father's hands. "No…no…'s okay…"

Aaron cast a furtive glance at Rossi. The older man's expression was impassive, but the sorrow in his eyes made them seem several shades darker and deeper. He gave the slightest, affirmative nod.

"It worked for ten years, but the policeman George made the deal with was old. And sick. He knew he wouldn't live very long. And when he died…"

"George would come back!" An undercurrent of terror in Jack's voice reminded Hotch that, to his son, nothing was certain when it came to monsters. All muddled up in the mind-set created by pop-culture, and combined with his tender age, was a sliver of doubt: the impossible could happen. Horrors could be reborn, could materialize out of thin air. Things lurked and surprised. They popped up behind you when you least expected. Dead things could come back to life.

Aaron wasn't sure he didn't feel the same way. Peter Lewis had resurrected things in his own mind that could qualify as revenant horrors. When he clutched Jack closer, Hotch wasn't sure which of them needed the reassurance more.

"George is gone, Buddy. He's gone. He can't ever come back. He can't ever hurt anyone. Ever. Ever."

After a breathless moment, Jack nodded. "I know. I know. He's dead. Gone. But…" He pushed up once again to address his father. "Why didn't he just make another deal? Why didn't someone try to make a deal with him so…so Mom would still…still…" The terrible concept of someone being able to save his mother and not taking action to do so robbed the child of words. Instead, he gaped at Daddy, needing an answer to the most dreadful riddle of his young life.

Hotch felt as though he were drowning. Forget the blood and gore and trauma of having killed George the Bad Guy with his bare hands. Forget Mr. Scratch clawing about in his psyche and the whole Moral Injury Syndrome. This was what he'd really wanted to shield Jack from. This was the ghost that echoed down through the years in the Reaper's voice… _'All your fault…all your fault…'_

With no safe place left, Aaron froze…

…and would forever after bless the melting warmth of Rossi's voice and its gentle intrusion.

"Kid…hey…look at me." Dave's regard claimed and held Jack's troubled gaze. "Making deals with the likes of George is a bad idea. What that policeman did was let the bad guy get away with hurting a lot of people. If he hadn't made that deal, they wouldn't have stopped looking for George and, with guys like your dad on the job, I bet they would have found him."

"But…but he would have stopped! Mom would be here! And…and…"

"No, kid." Rossi's tone was grave; his voice flat. "Even if someone had made another deal with him, George couldn't be trusted. Someone who does what he did is crazy. A deep down kind of crazy that's unpredictable. We don't know for sure that he _didn't_ hurt more people after that deal was made. He could have done stuff we still haven't found out about. George was bad and mean and crazy and he had to be stopped."

Tears filled Jack's eyes and voice. "So Daddy stopped him."

"Yes." Rossi transferred his look to Hotch's storm-tossed eyes. "You father stopped him once and for all. And he's never coming back. And he'll never hurt anyone again."

Jack tucked himself back into the safety of his father's arms and sobbed.

There were still things to discuss; things that needed addressing, but Dave knew when enough was enough. Looking at the silent tears dripping down Aaron's gaunt, staring face, he took control.

"I think it's time we took a break."

No one disagreed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi rose from his place on the couch. He made his way to the kitchen, trailing a sympathetic hand across the back of Hotch's shoulders in passing. He took his time, busying himself with various beverage preparations, searching for and finding a tin of cocoa… _What house with a kid in it doesn't have one?_...and a mostly-full bottle of brandy… _What house with a man as haunted as Aaron doesn't have one of those, too?_

By the time he returned to the living room, a modicum of recovery had happened. Jack's sobs were over. Hotch's face bore tracks of dried salt. But, more importantly, the two were talking.

Actually, Jack was talking. The words were streaming out of him as freely as Aaron's tears had been a short time ago.

"…after that. So we hid and he still found us? Even when Mom didn't look like…?" The boy's eyes tracked over to the photo of blonde, pixie-cut Haley, forever smiling and laughing.

"Yes. And that's why…"

"That's why I don't remember friends and school and all the regular stuff the other kids do." It was a sad statement; one that made Rossi feel comfortable about interrupting and distributing drinks.

"Here ya go, Jack." The older man placed a steaming mug of cocoa into the child's waiting hands. "And here's for you…" He waited for the boy to disengage himself from his father's arms before pressing a similar mug onto Aaron. Dave leaned in and murmured near the Unit Chief's ear. "Small sips. Yours is the adult version."

Hotch gave his friend an inquisitive look before tasting his cocoa. His brows rose as he mastered his reaction to the burning sensation coursing down his throat. The frothy, chocolate look of the thing was deceptive. Rossi had doctored it with a large dose of brandy. "G…Good…," he choked out.

"Glad you like it." Dave resumed his seat on the couch after retrieving another cup from the kitchen for himself. Aaron could tell by the man's slight wince as he drank that it had been similarly laced with liquor.

For several minutes all three were silent, savoring their respective beverages and sorting their respective thoughts. At last, wearing a chocolate foam mustache, Jack spoke. He stared into his cup, avoiding the older men's eyes.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Everyone else knows all that stuff, right? About George?"

Hotch's voice held regret and resignation. "It was in the news, so…yeah, probably. But it was years ago. People tend to forget when the news doesn't affect them directly."

Jack nodded, still contemplating the contents of his cup. "But I heard those teachers. You know…the ones who said I was there for the whole thing." At last he raised his head and confronted his father. "If I remember who George was, and if I remember what Mom looked like then…how come I don't remember all of it?"

Aaron took a slow, considered sip of his drink. He reached to the side and placed the mug on an end table, giving himself time to construct a response.

"It's called shock, Buddy. When something bad happens, sometimes your mind tries to protect you from it. It can hide the saddest parts away so you don't have to deal with too much all at once."

Rossi watched the gears turning in the youngest Hotchner's head. He knew children were more perceptive than adults gave them credit for, but Jack seemed more so than most. _And he's persistent. He's so much like Aaron. Analytical, probing. Not always a good thing to be._

The silence extended. It was beginning to make Hotch uncomfortable. Clearly, his son was working things out. As someone with a better view of the larger picture, the Unit Chief didn't see how it could lead anyplace good. Then, at long last…

"So…when I…when…" The child turned helpless eyes on his father, pleading for aid. The real hell of childhood was not having the ability to explain the really important things. And then Jack heard the echo of a laugh and the tinkling of beads braided into a girl's hair. Jewel's voice ghosted through his mind. _'Don't try to be so perfect all the time. Just make it about what it_ _ **feels**_ _like…'_

"Dad, I feel like I have to run away sometimes."

Both Rossi and Hotch sat forward. The young voice was so tight and forced; both sensed this was the crux of what Jack needed help with. Dave glanced at Aaron and saw the signs of stress emerging again. The PTSD and whatever other damage had been inflicted on him were like hands around the man's throat; strangling him when he needed breath and speech most; when his son needed him to be whole and in control. So, again, the older man stepped in.

"Can you tell us what makes you want to run away, Jack?" Rossi sounded like the very soul of calm reason. _Nothing to be afraid of here…Just a coupla guys talkin'…_

To the child, this wasn't as terrifying as to the parent. Jack's fear was of his inexplicable feelings and responses. He didn't have the whole, bloody picture haunting him the way Aaron did. A voice that exuded serenity in a quiet setting was of immeasurable value. Hotch was painfully aware that this was something he couldn't deliver as well as Dave could. _Not yet, anyway. But I_ _ **will**_ _, Buddy. I promise someday I'll be better and I_ _ **will**_ _be able to help you…_

While Aaron tried not to hyperventilate, Rossi led little Jack Hotchner along the terrible path of the worst chapter of his childhood.


	72. Things That Go Bump

Jack Hotchner was a smart kid.

Even under stress, things would filter through his emotions and lodge in his brain for later inspection.

One of the things he learned that night, albeit something he couldn't verbalize, despite being able to experience it emotionally, was that talking with someone besides his father about the hard things of life rendered them more accessible. When he talked to Daddy, Jack could tell Daddy was trying with all his might _not_ to let on that he was all broken and smashed inside. Daddy tried to be strong; tried to hide his hurts.

Jack could sense them, though. He imagined if his artistically inclined friend, Jewel, drew a picture of them, they would look like something dark and caged, all full of teeth and drenched with tears. And brave. Very, very brave. He wasn't sure how one would draw 'brave.' He'd have to ask Jewel about it sometime.

While such considerations and revelations skipped along the surface of one of the levels in the boy's mind, Rossi tried to plumb the depths of others that were heaving with swells of anxiety and confusion.

"What do you do when you feel like running away, Jack?" Dave's tone expressed a complete lack of judgment. There were no right answers. No wrong answers. Just a space where words and the feelings behind them could spill out in any form they chose.

The only one who looked threatened was Hotch. A father's private dread was raising its head. It felt as though he were cuddling up with something feral and quite capable of ravening its way through his internal organs. Visions of his small son in a desperate run to escape the world Daddy had crafted for him slithered closer and closer, coalescing into the horrors he'd seen. Runaways tortured, abused…sliced and diced…

But then Jack's voice infiltrated the dim terrors of Hotch's thoughts. The child was adopting Rossi's tone. Calm. Level. Not as soothing as Dave's, but drawing comfort from the older man's demeanor and unconsciously mirroring it. Aaron felt his muscles ease just a little. He didn't know Rossi's thoughts as the older man kept surreptitious watch on the father as well as the son:

 _Good boys. You want comfort so badly, you'll find it. Even if it's only a friendly voice. I've done this dance with your Dad, Jack. Like gentling any frightened creature. Now let's figure this out…where do you run when running's all you want to do…_

"What do you do when you feel like that, Jack?" Rossi lifted one shoulder in a diffident shrug. "Clearly you haven't run away from home, 'cause, well…here you are."

"No. No, not like that." Hotch's son shook his head and focused on making himself understood. "Not run away from _home_. Not really run at all. Well, _sort_ of run. It's…it's…"

Dave saw the beginnings of something darker creeping into Jack's eyes. With a deliberate show of ease, he sat back and jutted his chin at the boy's cup of cocoa. "Take a sip before it gets cold. There's no rush. Got all the time in the world." He gave in to a faint smile when both Hotchner's obeyed and two cups rose to two sets of lips. He waited a few more beats. "Okay, now. Can you remember one specific time you had that runaway feeling?" Jack blinked, eyes going distant, but almost immediately returning and focusing on Rossi. He nodded. "Good. Just break it down and tell me what happened. Step by step. Dot to dot. No big deal."

"Okay." Jack's gaze lowered. _Dot to dot…kinda like how Jewel says to do stuff…how to get past the things that tie you up…_ He pressed back against Aaron's sturdy, warm presence, unaware that he was seeking protection in the one place he knew, despite everything, he would have the best chance of finding it. "Okay." He took a deep, almost-shuddering breath.

The trembling expansion of Jack's lungs registered against his father's side. In a brief, instinctive action, Hotch leaned, resting his chin on top of Jack's head for a moment and then drawing back; not wanting to interfere in Dave's exploration of the boy's inner workings, but needing that small contact.

Once again, Rossi thought of frightened, woodland creatures and that most elemental of ways to convey support: the nuzzle. The child took encouragement from it and continued.

Jack looked up at Dave. "It was at soccer practice."

"What happened?"

"I dunno."

"Something made you want to run away. So maybe you _do_ know." Rossi glanced up and saw Aaron beginning to bristle. _Doesn't matter if I'm his best friend. He's telling me not to push. Telling me not to bully his son._ The older man gave the slightest nod. "Do you always feel that way at practice?"

"No. Only when…" The distant look returned to Jack's features. "…when the ball sounds funny."

"Funny. Funny how?"

"When…when it's not filled up enough. It…it makes a sound when you kick it. A sort of sick sound, and…and…"

"Stay with me, Jack. It's not happening now. It's just a memory. Can't hurt you. Go into it and there's a good chance it'll never hurt you again." Rossi flicked a quick glance at Hotch. The young father seemed to be holding his breath; his expression a rictus of dread.

The child closed his eyes and bowed his head, making a manful effort to comply and 'go into' the place where something grisly might be waiting. He could feel Daddy's pounding heart echoing his own. In a strange way, it felt like company.

"It's…it's a dead kind of sound. Like…like something thumping along and you just _know_ there's something really, really wrong."

"More wrong than just a ball that needs some air?"

" _Really_ wrong!"

Rossi opened his mouth to continue, but snapped it shut in the next instant. He'd glimpsed Aaron's dilated pupils and drained complexion. Dave's mind raced. It was important to push onward. His professional skill told him something vital was lurking just around the corner. Something that needed to be exposed. If they wanted to deprive it of whatever power it had over Jack, they had to stick with it.

But that look on Hotch's face.

That terrible look.

Rossi didn't quite back off. Instead, he feinted at the thing lurking in Jack's mind, yet still hoped for an opportune moment that would let him speak to Aaron in private. Soon.

"Are there other times when you've heard something that made you feel that way? Anything you can remember?"

Jack shuddered, visions from movies he hated sharpening against his inner vision. "The other kids like war stuff and battles." His head lowered as though weighed down by the shame of not fitting in with his peers. In a barely audible whisper… "I hate that stuff. Don't know why."

Rossi thought if he didn't find out what was making Hotch look like an ice sculpture, eyes fixed, features motionless…he'd be sacrificing the welfare of the father in favor of the son. He glanced at his watch and emitted a theatrically exaggerated sigh. "It's getting late. Jack, why don't you go get ready for bed and think about anything else that makes you feel like running away? Come back out here when you've got your PJs on, deal?"

Hotch's son nodded, slipped off the couch and moved toward his room. In truth, he was glad of the respite. He needed a few minutes to tamp down the panicky runaway feeling that threatened to bubble to the surface at mere mention of its triggers. He grabbed pajamas out of his room and continued on to the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft snick.

As soon as the sound of the closing door assured the adults of some privacy, Rossi edged closer to Hotch. He kept his voice low, but with an undercurrent of concern. "Aaron? What's goin' on? You look like hell."

The Unit Chief swallowed back the impulse to gag on the images Jack's words had birthed in his own mind; his own private hell tied irrevocably to his son's. "Dave…" Large, tragic eyes shimmered. "…when I went after Foyet…when I got to the house…there was blood on the stairs. It…it was Haley's. But…but the phone…the phone we talked on…talked on for the last time…was downstairs on the table. So…so he…what Jack heard was…"

Rossi inhaled a deep breath, averting his eyes and running a hand over his beard.

He knew what Hotch was thinking.

He knew what lay behind the sounds that haunted Jack.

They both did.

 _But how in hell do we defuse the memory a little kid has of his mother's corpse bumping its way past him?_


	73. Wave

The sounds of a boy readying for bed drifted out of the bathroom, overly-loud in the silence that cloaked the living room.

Hotch and Rossi stared into each other's eyes during the running of water, the brushing of teeth. When the shower came on, the certainty of several minute's privacy freed the two agents from the speechless sharing of the terrible knowledge of Haley's death, and Jack's proximity to it.

"You can't tell him, Aaron. It's too much."

Hotch swallowed, lips and throat dry with anxiety. "I know. But…but I promised I wouldn't hide the bad parts from him, Dave. I said I wouldn't lie."

"The hell with that! You can't tell him."

"I _know_. But it's haunting him. It's affecting other aspects of his life. I can't…"

"YOU CAN'T TELL HIM." Rossi hadn't shouted, but the force of the harsh, gritty whisper was equally effective. It shut Hotch up.

The Unit Chief trembled, large, tragic eyes telegraphing several different hellish levels of distress. The long muscles of his throat spasmed with the difficulty of getting the next words out.

"Dave…I just…I can't…" Hotch gulped a huge breath that did nothing to calm him. "I don't…" He dropped his head, despairing of ever explaining the immensity of the conflict burning within his chest, scorching his father's heart.

The shower turned off. His son's imminent return broke through some of the panic throttling him. His eyes closed as he channeled all his energy into making himself heard. "Dave, if I lie or break a promise to Jack, there's no way I deserve to be _anyone's_ parent. He'd be better off without me. I…can't…lie when I _promised_."

The bathroom door opened.

Rossi rested a quick hand on Hotch's knee, his whisper this time was light and gentle, inaudible to any but his best friend's ears. "You can't lie. But I can."

He tried not to notice the Unit Chief's look that fell short of outrage, but exceeded shock.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Showering and changing into pajamas, Jack had been on autopilot, his mind preoccupied with not only Mr. Rossi's instructions to come up with additional things that made him get the same edgy running-away feeling as the dead-soccer-ball sound, and movies with battles and fighting did. Not just that.

Something else was at play here and Jack was beginning to get angry about it.

He knew he'd been sent away so the adults could talk. About him. About what he'd asked…no, not asked… _begged_ to be told about his mother's death. He was sure they were hiding things. As much as Jack wanted to argue and hold his father accountable for keeping his promise to tell even the bad things…or most of them, anyway…part of him quailed at doing so. He knew how much it would hurt Daddy. It was always like this. And Jack was getting sick of it.

His small lips thinned into a line more appropriate to someone twice his age.

As he stumped toward the living room and the two adults he was sure had been discussing things they thought were too big for him, he congratulated himself on asking Mr. Rossi to stay. Because he was sure that Mr. Rossi could talk about stuff without suffering the way Daddy did.

They might have to send Daddy from the room, but Jack was determined to push the limits; to stray outside the lines that love for his father had imposed upon him.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack entered the living room and pulled up short, eyes tracking from Hotch to Dave and back again, a small frown etching a line between his brows.

The expressions on the two men's faces made him think he was right about everything. Daddy looked scared and torn apart, and trying to hide it. Mr. Rossi looked smooth and unconcerned. The boy would have thought 'urbane,' if that word had been in his juvenile vocabulary.

He thought it proved his point. Mr. Rossi would be the one best able to discuss, well… _everything_. Jack moved toward them and resumed a cautious seat on the couch.

"That was fast." Dave's smile was a mere flicker. He could read the boy's suspicion as though it were a glaze that had been applied in the minutes he'd been gone. It was all over him. Hard to miss.

Hotch's son shrugged and kept his attention trained on Rossi. It was only a baby Hotch-stare, but it was nonetheless disconcerting. Dave tried to overlook it.

"So, did you think of any more things that make you want to run away?"

Jack braced himself emotionally. He clung to words that helped keep him calm. Jewel's words that he was a person separate and complete in himself. Rossi's words that nothing they were talking about was happening now; none of it could hurt anyone. And Daddy's words that even the bad things could be discussed; that they would fight them together.

"How come it's always sounds?"

The adults' shared a glance. Hotch felt sandpaper coat his throat. Before he could get past the feeling, Dave stepped in.

"Does it seem that way to you?"

Jack's features went thoughtful. He gave a slow nod. "Yeah. I…I think so anyway." His look sharpened on Rossi. "Why is that?"

"So what happens when you hear one of those things? We already figured out you don't really run away."

Hotch had raised his son with all the manners of a budding Southern gentleman. He knew they wouldn't take root as firmly in the child as they had in him. Jack had to contend with a peer group that was less courteous. Aaron held the private belief that social media which granted anonymity, and reality TV that glorified outrageous behavior were partly to blame. And, too, Jack's upbringing would never have the terror factor that Hotch's own father had fostered to enforce manners. Aaron's courtly demeanor had been instilled with bruises and threats. Still, he was proud of Jack's grasp of the finer points of social interaction even at such a young age. If Hotch hadn't been so on edge about the subject matter, he would have smiled at his son's handling of Dave's smooth avoidance of the boy's question.

Jack's mouth opened, then closed. He'd been about to answer, because it was the respectful thing to do. And he'd been taught to respect his elders. He didn't get angry very often. He'd been upset at his father after the whole incident where Hotch had been arrested. Jack didn't want a repeat performance of carrying that angry feeling around with him. Somehow he knew that's what would happen if he didn't stand his ground and get the answers he needed. The line between his brows deepened. "How come it's sounds, Mr. Rossi? How come?"

Dave's recoil was so slight, only Aaron, a trained profiler, caught it. Like the seasoned pro he was, though, Rossi recovered. "We'll get to that, kid. First, let's explore the effect these sounds have. It could tell us a lot."

Jack chewed his lip, mini-Hotch-stare still in force. "If I say okay, you won't forget? Or say it's too late and we'll have to talk about it another time? Or…or tell me I won't understand?"

Some cracks appeared in Dave's sophisticated veneer. Something infinitely sad seemed to infuse his features. _Damn it. How old is this kid? Ten going on thirty-five?_ He allowed himself a sigh of defeat, sitting back and slumping a little. "It's complicated, Jack."

The look in Aaron's eyes almost undid Rossi.

The look in Jack's finished the job.

"Kid, I can't make any promises."

What neither adult had counted on was the ferocity of Jack's need to know. His brain was whirling at an incredible rate. Since things had begun to fall apart for him emotionally, the reasons why it might be happening and the things that precipitated it occupied him with an obsessive grip.

As tears of frustration began to well in his eyes, some of the pieces fell together in a disjointed pattern, but a pattern nonetheless.

He stared at Dave without really seeing him. His voice…a faint whisper laced with horror.

"I was there. They said I was there… When Mommy got…when Mommy got…killed."

"Buddy…" Hotch couldn't breathe. He could see it coming and there was nothing he could do to stop the wave that was going to crash down and engulf his fragile, little family.

Jack's head did a slow pivot, bringing Daddy into focus. "I was there…I heard…I heard…"

With the speed and strength of paternal instinct, Aaron folded himself around his son as completely as bone and sinew would allow.

But it wasn't enough to keep the wave, redolent of blood and monsters and sorrow, from swallowing them both.


	74. Flood

David Rossi prided himself on having reached a point in his life where he could analyze and deconstruct most situations and people, and, having done so, could reassemble them in a process that granted him understanding deep enough to allow him to solve whatever riddle the situation or person presented.

But watching the Hotchners dissolve into what seemed little more than a primal puddle of sire and son made Dave feel utterly and completely useless.

There was no point in making sympathetic noises.

There was no point in applying a comforting touch.

There was no delaying tactic like cocoa or brandy that could provide solace.

There was every indication that Aaron and Jack were wrapped in their own miserable memories with no room for anyone else.

Rossi knew when he was beaten. And he knew when to call in the big guns.

He didn't bother checking his watch or considering the late evening hour. After all, Dr. Fletcher had called him a short while back and asked him to intervene when he thought Hotch was in trouble. Dave didn't see any reason to assume the doctor would mind if the tables were reversed. He left the living room with the sounds of animal whimpering tearing at his heart. Once out of earshot, he wasted no time finding Fletcher's cell number.

The doctor picked up midway into the first ringtone.

"Dave?"

"Hey, Doc. Gotta situation here…" Rapt silence on the other end assured Rossi that he had the undivided attention of Hotch's psychiatrist. "Kind of a crisis, you might say."

The low, urgent tone of the FBI agent's voice brought out one of calm ease in Fletcher. Like a professional reflex, his words were a soothing balm. "Tell me where Aaron is now…what he's doing…and what makes you consider it a crisis."

"Not just Aaron. His son, J-Jack." Dave choked on the boy's name. All the affection he felt for the little Hotchner family surged to the fore, making his voice crack.

"Dave, listen to me. It's hard to watch, hard to stand by, when people you care about are hurting, but very often that pain is the first step in healing. So…stay calm." The doctor paused, hoping the words had sunk in. "Now, tell me what's going on with Aaron _and_ his son."

The soft sound of whimpering coming from the living room spurred Rossi on, making him cut to the core of the matter. "Jack's been repressing his mother's death. He's not doing that anymore. He's…he's remembering that he was there… _right there_ …when she was murdered."

"Holy shit."

The expletive reassured Dave that Fletcher grasped the dreadful impact of what was happening to a vulnerable child. Rossi felt a little better, knowing the doctor shared his horror. It was a perverse kind of consolation to have someone else aware of just how dark things were. "I don't know how to help them, Doc."

"What are they doing right now?"

"Holding onto each other and making sounds that'd rip your heart out."

"But they're together? Jack's not trying to run off on his own?"

Rossi leaned to one side, giving him a better sight-line into the living room and the couch. "Doesn't look like either of them has leaving on their minds."

"Good."

"So what do I do?"

A brief hesitation told Dave he wasn't going to like Fletcher's reply.

"You're not gonna like this…"

Sometimes Rossi hated being right…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dave ended the call and stood stock still, taking a moment to gather himself. It didn't work very well.

Shoulders slumping, he heaved a dejected sigh. Fletcher had nearly insisted on coming over, but somehow Rossi knew that wouldn't help things. Neither Hotchner would want an audience to this most private of outpourings.

And that's just what it was.

He'd suspected so, but the psychiatrist had confirmed it. Once the repressed memories began to surface, there wasn't any good way to control the pace at which they'd emerge. It was an organic process that most therapists agreed should be allowed to follow its own lead once begun.

One thing was sure, though: the emotional fallout could be disastrous.

Fletcher had expounded on repressed memories as much as time allowed. Dave was anxious to get back to Aaron and Jack, even if he was essentially useless until the process slowed. He clung to the fragment of information the doctor had provided that seemed the most comforting. _If the memories are surfacing and the boy has been asking about the circumstances that he repressed in the first place, there's a good chance his subconscious feels it's ready to handle the burden._

Rossi took another deep breath and turned back toward the living room. _Maybe Jack_ _ **is**_ _ready, but that doesn't make it any less painful._ He slipped his phone back into his pocket, wondering if he'd done the right thing by refusing Fletcher's presence.

Feeling shaky and disappointed in the lack of practical guidance offered by modern psychiatry, Dave went to give whatever strength and support he could to his best friend and his godchild.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Fletcher paced.

He fidgeted.

He chewed on the inside of his left cheek until the pain jolted him out of his reverie; thoughts that whirled around Aaron Hotchner and his young son.

The son Aaron had put at the front of his priorities, almost begging for help.

The son who was the reason Aaron was attacking his own therapy with renewed vigor, hoping he could speed the process, thereby bringing his boy closer to the aid he so sorely needed.

 _I had no idea the child was so close to the edge. I got distracted by Hieronymus Mason and the special attention that seemed to originate at the uppermost echelons of the FBI when it comes to Aaron. Damn it! I can't let a layman like Dave, who's blinded by his own emotional attachment to my patient, decide what would be best for that boy!_

Looking grim and determined, Fletcher grabbed a jacket and his car keys.

Once behind the wheel, he cursed the time it took to program Hotch's address into his GPS.

When he'd been talking to Rossi, he had adopted a tone that was the soul of serenity, but when the voice was his own inner dialogue, he knew there wasn't a moment to waste.

XXXXXXXXXX

Rossi returned to the living room and hovered over the still-entwined, miserable, little ball of father and son.

Their eyes were squeezed shut. It was hard to understand what Jack was saying; weeping had a way of garbling speech. Dave could catch some of Hotch's words. 'Sorry' and 'Too late' seemed to figure prominently.

The older man settled a comforting hand on one of Aaron's shoulders. The two Hotchners were so wrapped around each other that there really wasn't much of Jack that could be reached.

 _As though all the protection Aaron can provide is covering his son with his physical strength; as though this will have some kind of retroactive effect on not being able to protect him all those years ago when Foyet did his best to destroy them all. And I'm still not sure he didn't succeed._

Fletcher had been right. Standing by like a helpless spectator was one of the worst experiences Dave would ever have. His eyes began to fill in sympathy.

And then his phone shrilled from the depths of his pocket. Half-angry and half-grateful for the interruption, Rossi pulled the cell out and answered without checking caller ID, unable to tear his eyes from the tormented Hotchners. "What!"

"Dave? It's Bill Fletcher. I'm outside…you know…if you need me…just in case…"

Rossi's bespoke, Italian leather loafers had seldom moved faster.


	75. Inner Children

Dr. Fletcher was gratified by the speed with which Rossi ushered him into the Hotchner home.

It meant he'd made the right decision in ignoring Dave's refusal of an after-hours house call. He shed his jacket and moved toward the sounds of disconsolate sorrow coming from the living room.

And stopped.

Somewhere in the center of his body…the place where deep emotion registered first…it felt as though an icy, leaden hand were squeezing him. Dr. William Fletcher was a seasoned pro; good enough for the FBI to entrust him with their most valuable resources…damaged agents. He'd seen patients weep with a complete lack of control as horror and grief bubbled up from hidden reservoirs. He'd dealt with murderous rage and abysmal depression. But this was different.

This was not his office.

This was not just an adult patient.

This was a private home where a private little family was being torn apart. And instead of only a grownup with mature resources developed over the course of years to aid mental survival, there was also a boy whose defenses were unequal to the task.

Fletcher felt the same fierce protective instinct toward children that Hotch did. It sprang from having seen too much of the harm human beings could inflict on each other; too much of the deep, abiding pain of the injured. It made the innocent palette of childhood so very, very precious. The doctor had a bone-deep antipathy for anyone who would muddy and darken that palette's pure colors.

And here was a young father wrapped in the sorrow of being helpless before his son's misery.

Fletcher swallowed more than once, trying to submerge his own emotional reaction. _Aaron tried to get me to help the boy. And I fobbed him off with some medically acceptable excuse. I should have listened, damn it. And damn a world that does things like this to children in the first place._

Quiet and smooth in his movements, the psychiatrist approached the meltdown of Hotchners. He perched on the arm of the couch, taking one moment more to look past this portrait of heartache and see it as a psychological maze that must have a path toward its center.

Fletcher reached out a hand and took firm hold of Hotch's shoulder.

"Aaron…Aaron…Aaron…"

His voice was monotone, like something that might have been calling to his patient for hours; something that was unaffected by the forces ravaging the Unit Chief's heart. Something that might endure beyond pain or loss or change.

"…Aaron…Aaron…Aaron…"

As endless as an ocean tide, the words wouldn't stop, wearing down, eating away at the crust of self-contained misery that father and son were turning into a sad shelter around them.

"…Aaron…Aaron…Aaron…Aaron…Aaron…Aaron…"

Just when Rossi began to consider stepping in and giving Hotch a hard shake in hopes of making him aware of Fletcher's presence, Aaron's breath hitched. The cadence of soft whimpering changed. Jack continued crying as though it were the only language he knew, but Hotch gasped a few times, breaking his emotional momentum. He remained curled around his son. If anything, he pulled the boy deeper into his embrace, but, chest heaving, he craned his neck around to bring the doctor into his field of vision.

"Aaron…Aaron…I'm here, Aaron. I'm here and I'll do my best to help your son. I'm sorry I didn't listen, but I'm here now. For as long as you need me. For as long as _he_ needs me."

Rossi held his breath.

Hotch's eyes harbored the same beaten look they'd had when he'd been cradling Haley's corpse. They were the eyes of a faithful animal who'd done his best, had given all he had to give, and couldn't understand the cruelty that seemed to be the wages for such unfaltering nobility.

 _Utter despair. That's what it is._ Dave bit his lip and glanced away, but only for a moment. _No man should have to experience that depth of defeat. And certainly not_ _ **twice**_ _in his lifetime._ When he looked back, Fletcher had moved from the couch to the floor.

On one knee, the doctor had brought himself to Hotch's eye level. And he wasn't flinching from the agent's obvious anguish. He still held one shoulder in a grip that he hoped felt more like a promise than a command.

"Aaron…Aaron, listen to me." Fletcher's brows knit into a momentary frown. "Aaron, are you with me? Are you here?"

Hotch swallowed with some difficulty, but gave a curt nod, eyes still telegraphing all the distress of a parent facing the possibility that his child would bear the scars of some deep, emotional disaster throughout the years of his life.

"Aaron, I know you're hurting…both of you are…but, as bad as it seems, this _**is**_ a necessary step. I promise it is. I…" Fletcher's words faded. Something in Hotch's dark, wet gaze held him spellbound…

Just as Aaron had seen something inestimably old and tired looking out of his son's eyes, so the psychiatrist saw something unbearably young in Hotch's. The expression drained from Fletcher's face as he read the psyche of a man who still had a child's unslaked yearning for safety and parental love.

And who would never find it.

It had passed him by. There was no going back.

Fletcher stared. _That's what happens to some of our abused children when they grow up. Sometimes they grow into remarkable men like this one. But they're never whole. They hunger, and that hunger will never leave them._ He took a deep breath. _I've got_ _ **two**_ _children to help here. Two._

He might have blundered on, hoping to hit the right tone that would make this submerged part of Aaron feel at least safe, if not cherished. Then…inspiration. Another solution fell into place like puzzle pieces rattling down from an unsuspected source and assembling themselves into a different, better picture.

Fletcher twisted around until he spotted Rossi. "Dave, would you…?" He tilted his head toward the agent whose eyes held such a lost, agonized look.

Rossi didn't need any more than that. He'd been holding back out of courtesy and a desperate hope that the doctor could work some kind of psychological magic. But he'd desperately wanted to demonstrate his concern and support in a physical way. He slid onto the couch at Aaron's back, leaning into him and taking ahold of as much of the bundle of Hotchners as two fatherly, Italian arms could embrace. It felt like the right thing to do.

Besides, from this angle Dave didn't have to look into those heartbreaking eyes with their burden of confusion and loss.

"I've got you, Aaron. You're not alone. Not alone."

Fletcher removed his own hand from the Unit Chief's shoulder, making room for the closest thing to a father the hurt, little boy inside his patient was likely ever to find. He knew it still wouldn't be enough, though, and he wondered what in the world could find a way to break through the pain and ease Hotch past this moment.

And exactly twenty seconds later, Fletcher ducked his head and hid a private grin. _Of course. I didn't need to say a thing. Dave went where Aaron needed him to go by sheer love and his own paternal instinct that never got a chance to be realized either._

Rossi rocked the slightest bit. Closing his eyes, he said it over and over and over…

"You're safe, Aaron. You're safe and…and…" Dave felt odd saying it with an audience, but his heart and Hotch's need wouldn't be denied. "…and you're loved. You're safe and loved, Aaron. Safe and loved."

Fletcher watched as the haunted child in Aaron's eyes slowly…so very slowly…receded, going back into the depths of the hurt soul that was its forever-home.


	76. Liar

After a while Rossi abandoned words.

He could feel Hotch's body beginning to edge its way from rigid tension into a trembling acceptance of whatever comfort was available. It reminded him again of Haley's death, of prying his Unit Chief away from the corpse of a woman who had once filled his heart and soul and life with all things good and troublesome.

Dave knew about the contradictions inherent in marriage. No one better. For all that Haley had broken Aaron's heart, still, she had been the first to awaken it, to make it pound with passion and all the hope that love could bring into a life.

 _Especially Aaron's. She was like rain in the desert. She made him bloom…at first, anyway. And then, there was Jack…a tremendous gift…_

Rossi gave a brief, hard squeeze to the Hotchners, still nested together like a single unit of genetic sorrow. _Sometimes I think that boy is all that keeps Aaron sane and moving forward._ Dave had never had that feeling of being responsible for a child's early life and development. He wasn't sure if he envied Hotch the experience, or if he was relieved to have escaped the vulnerability it brought with it. Rossi had known his own heartbreak, but it was very different from Aaron's experience.

As he held the Hotchners, his mind wandered to a graveyard where two pieces of his own heart rested side by side…wife and son. It had been one of the deepest, darkest torments of his life when his child, James, had died before he'd had a chance to live. Dave couldn't imagine what it would have felt like if James had survived, and if he'd had to witness the child broken and damaged as a result of his own career choices.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to live with himself.

It made him grip the Hotchners that much tighter.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As he watched Rossi, Dr. Fletcher kept his thoughts to himself, but they were troubling.

The more so, because he knew he'd have to share them sooner or later.

With all his experience and education, with all his heart, he wanted to help his patients. The gratification when he _could_ was the primary source of joy in his life. There were failures, too, of course. Fletcher dealt with them as they happened. But, when it came to Aaron, the psychiatrist had a foreboding feeling that there would be no solid win. There might be a conditional betterment.

But, if he failed, it would be on a spectacular scale. A failure which would render both doctor and patient…changed. A failure from which Jack might emerge as mere collateral damage.

Fletcher swallowed the anxious lump forming in his throat. _Help the child. He's the one who has a chance for full recovery. Or, at least his psychic injuries won't form the fabric out of which his whole life is cut._ He inhaled a deep, steadying breath. _But…poor Aaron…_

After things seemed less fraught with emotion, Fletcher stepped closer and gave Dave's shoulder a gentle nudge.

It was time to get to work.

XXXXXXXXXX

Rossi felt the touch on his shoulder and took the hint. He eased back and loosened his hold, letting his hands slide around to rest on the trembling muscles of Hotch's back.

"Hey," he whispered, voice gruff with the emotions of a man trying to be as brave as a friend's need required. "Hey, Aaron…How you holdin' up?"

As Hotch quieted, so did Jack.

Feeling his son's response to his own effort to exert control, Aaron's parental instinct kicked in. He would contain his emotions and let them ravage his soul if it would help Jack. He vowed he'd make up for this lapse, for this sobbing over his child's recovered memory. Hotch twisted his neck around, finding Dave's face inches from his own.

"Hey…how you doin'?" Rossi's sad, lopsided, half-grin told the Unit Chief that they were on the same page.

 _I know you're dying inside, Aaron. But…Jack… He needs you. Whatever disguise you try to put on all this, I'll back you up. I'm here. You're safe._

Hotch heard the unspoken part: _You're loved,_ and realized his friend had been saying that all along. He hadn't heard it over his own and his son's sorrow, but his subconscious had, and now the words wafted across his soul like a gentle, dependable breeze.

Hotch nodded and cleared his throat, levering himself up and taking a long, concerned look at the boy he'd been wrapped around as though his sheer proximity could act as some kind of retroactive shield against the Reaper.

A small, sibilant voice in the far reaches of Aaron's mind began to hiss at him that he was a terrible father because that's all his own experience had taught him. He recognized the scratchy sound of Peter Lewis. With a great, mental heave, Hotch overturned the doubts and fears slithering out from that dark place.

 _You're safe…You're loved…_ He made an effort to keep Rossi's words uppermost. It almost worked. At least, it was enough for him to pry Jack out of the small, miserable ball into which he'd curled. Mimicking Dave's half-grin as best he could without feeling the least bit mirthful or hopeful inside, Hotch rubbed the salty tracks from his son's cheeks.

"Hey, Buddy. I guess you got some answers on your own, but, like Mr. Rossi said, you still don't have the whole picture." With a cautious glance at the psychiatrist hovering nearby, Aaron took a deep breath and willed his voice to sound strong for his son. "Talk to me, Buddy. Ask me…anything…" He almost got the word out without vocally cracking, but not quite. "…and I'll do my best to answer."

Rossi and Fletcher drew back without realizing they were doing so more out of dread at what Jack might ask, than out of a show of granting privacy. They watched Hotch pull from an iron discipline rooted in his willingness to sacrifice himself on the altar of his child's survival.

Jack rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and damp nose. He fixed Daddy with a stare that told Hotch he was under observation. The worst kind. The kind that could hereafter define his son's perception of trust and truth. The kind that would require careful choreography to get from start to finish.

"That was Mommy being killed that I heard…wasn't it?"

Aaron's eyes never left Jack's. He nodded once; a slight dip of the head that seemed more like reverence for a lost loved one than affirmation of a horror.

"So…so what were the sounds? What were they?"

Stoic. Blank. Hotch's soul died a little at that moment. _Forgive me, Jack. I'm going to lie to you after all._

"I told you Mommy got shot. What else did you hear?"

"That sick sound. Like what soccer balls make. When they're not…" The boy's voice faded. Aaron could see his mind putting together the noises that had haunted him with whatever a child's imagination could dredge up from this society that, at every turn, provided rich and bloody scenes laced with violence.

 _Forgive me, Jack…_ "That was probably me fighting George, the bad guy. We fell down the stairs at one point and it was pretty loud."

Silence.

Two pairs of brown eyes studying each other.

 _He's not buying it. God, he remembers it_ _ **all**_ _…too much… Forgive me, Jack…_ "It might have been something else, too. I…I told you Mom got shot. It was downstairs. George carried her up to her bed. You might have heard him. He would have been going really slow and heavy…carrying her." _I will_ _ **not**_ _tell you he dragged your mother's bleeding corpse up the stairs like a sack of laundry. I will_ _ **not**_ _tell you he dumped her on the floor of the room where we made love…where we made you…to hurt me even more…_

Jack blinked.

 _He believes me. Or he's going to let me get away with it._

"How many times did Mommy get shot?"

Hotch's throat worked as he swallowed his own flash of memory: Erin Strauss reading from Haley's autopsy report as though she were sharing a weather forecast… "Once. But there were other shots. When I came for George, we shot at each other. We missed." _I will_ _ **not**_ _tell you I was in a killing rage and emptied my gun into his chest. I will_ _ **not**_ _tell you that horrible feeling when I saw the bullets embedded in Kevlar. I will_ _ **not**_ _say when his eyes opened, it was like a monster that comes back to life and won't stop until it kills you. Forgive me, Jack…_

"So George brought Mommy upstairs and put her to bed?"

"That's where she was. Upstairs. Our bedroom." _Forgive me…_

Jack broke from watching his father. His eyes dropped and he nodded to himself, looking thoughtful. "Okay…okay." He looked up once more. "I was right there. The whole time."

"Yes." Said so softly, Rossi and Fletcher had to strain to hear, even though they were only feet away. "But I wasn't going to let anything happen to you, Buddy."

A long moment passed while Jack studied his father again. When he scooted across the couch and threw his arms around Hotch's neck, all three adults took their first full breaths since the question-and-answer session had begun.

"I know, Dad. I know."

Aaron held his son. Waves of overpowering love warred with self-loathing. _I lied. I couldn't keep my word and just tell him I didn't want to talk about it. He'd have known it was bad._

Hotch hadn't figured on the power of a child's imagination. Not until he'd seen nightmares birthing in his son's eyes. The cost of keeping his word would have been unleashing those horrors, giving them free reign.

 _Forgive me, Jack…_

XXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Fletcher nudged Rossi. "Aaron did well. But it hurt him."

Dave's nod was sad as he looked at the tableau of father and son.

"Most things do."


	77. The Honest, Ugly Truth

Arms still looped around his father's neck, Jack gave a yawn so spacious, it could have competed with New Mexico's Carlsbad Caverns as a natural wonder.

It was also loud enough to intrude on the private thoughts of all three adults. It released a vast reservoir of relief in Hotch. He hoped it signaled not only the end of this particular discussion, but that his son was emptied of horror enough to allow emotional exhaustion to take over.

He rested his chin on the boy's shoulder and cherished the brief moment of quiet. Lately, every hug, every indication of childish dependence and trust made him think they were coming from a dwindling supply. One day they'd be all used up, and handshakes or the reserved hugs of adulthood would replace them. Yet, in a way, he would welcome Jack moving beyond the age of this kind of dependency. It would mean he was more able to protect himself; less reliant on a Daddy who was damaged to heal the woes of the world.

The conflicting feelings wrapped around Hotch's heart, pricking it like barbed wire. He wanted both. He wanted to always be the monument of safety to whom his child would run. Yet he wanted his son to stand strong and powerful on his own. Aaron knew he'd have to give up the former. Mr. Scratch's hiss deep in his brain hinted that he didn't deserve it anyway. He wasn't predictable any more. And there was that matter of being forced to his knees at gunpoint while his boy screamed in horror. A more visceral demonstration of how Daddy couldn't keep him safe was hard to imagine.

So this arms-around-neck moment was precious.

He buried his nose against Jack's hair, muffling his words. "Hey, Buddy. We good? For now?"

There was a slight hesitation that Hotch could feel throughout the boy's posture just before he pushed up and away, disengaging from his father. "Yeah. I guess."

The older pair of deep brown eyes looked into the younger, searching for shadows. "You know we can talk again. Any time. About anything."

"And you should. You will." Dr. Fletcher's words were a soft, yet firm intrusion. "You'll talk about this many, many times. And Jack? You need to promise yourself you won't let things build up. When something bothers you, or just doesn't make sense…talk to your father. Or you can talk to me, if it's something too…"

"No." Jack interrupted, eyes still locked on Hotch's. "I can talk to Dad."

The psychiatrist fell silent, knowing the boy's simple, sure statement would work on Aaron like a tonic.

It was a better ending for the father-son discussion than he'd hoped.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi watched as Aaron ushered Jack to his bedroom.

He imagined there would be a last goodnight hug and some comforting words of reassurance; maybe another, shorter conversation, less fraught with emotion. He turned to see Fletcher also tracking the Hotchners' progress, but with a sadder expression. Dave's eyes narrowed.

"Hell of a way to spend an evening, eh, Doc?"

The question was laced with suspicion. The psychiatrist caught every nuance. He took a deep breath. "It's not over. It's Aaron's turn now." He saw Rossi's inquisitive look as the agent's brows rose.

"Don't you think he's been through enough?"

"He was through 'enough' a long, long time ago. Now he's practically buried beneath the accumulation since attaining 'enough.' And the man's got so many defenses and so much damage, I don't want to wait any longer."

Dave's expression was still guarded. "So you want to attack him while he's tired…at a weak point?"

"I don't see it that way." Fletcher moved closer to the agent, keeping his voice low and glancing in the direction of Jack's bedroom. "Yes, Aaron's tired and wrung out, but he's coming off a victory; one that means a lot to him. And one thing I bet we both agree on is that good news about his son will more than offset less-good news about himself."

Rossi's expression went blank. Suspicion ebbed from his eyes, displaced by a slow-growing dread. "What do you mean 'less good?'"

The doctor took a deep, considered breath, preparatory to explaining his thoughts. His lips parted…and then clamped shut.

The sound of Jack's bedroom door opening and then closing with a soft click signaled Hotch's return.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

As soon as he entered the room, the Unit Chief knew he'd interrupted something.

Something that had a dire aura to it. The skin along his temples tightened; an involuntary bracing for anything from a headache to a verbal lashing.

He glanced from Dave to Fletcher, scanning for clues. "What?"

Rossi perched on the arm of the couch, crossed his arms and raised one brow at the psychiatrist. "Hotch, you stole the word right out of my mouth…. Doc?...What?"

Fletcher took a breath, nodding to himself as he organized his thoughts. But before he could begin, Aaron dropped onto his place on the couch, and buried his face against his palms. He emitted a groan that morphed into a frustrated growl. When he looked up at the doctor, resignation and pain limned his features. "It's Jack. He's never going to move past this, is that what you…"

"No! No, not at all!...Aaron…" Fletcher went down on one knee, bringing him to the seated man's eye level and allowing him to aim his words with the greatest possible precision. "…Aaron, it's my honest, professional belief that your son _will_ come through this. In time, he'll put it behind him. He'll overwrite so much of these early experiences with all the marvelous things that are yet to happen; things he can't even imagine at his age." The psychiatrist's eyes crinkled with genuine warmth. "That's the blessing of being so young. A lifetime of experiences are waiting to pile on top of the ones that define childhood. He'll literally outgrow the memories of his mother's death. He will." Fletcher lowered his chin, holding Hotch's gaze and willing the agent to see his sincerity. "Jack will be fine. Tonight was traumatic, but necessary. And it'll fade. I'm sure of it."

Aaron had studied his son's eyes for lingering shadows. Now, he studied the doctor's for evasion and lies. Slowly, it dawned on him; the palpable concern when he'd entered the room… _Jack'll make it. But it's too late for me?_ A sibilant chuckle bubbled up from deep in his mind. _Told you so, Agent Hotchner…Told you so…,_ it hissed _._ The memory of Peter Lewis's evil smirk taunted Hotch. _I'm right here in your head, Little Aaron. And I like it so much, I'm never going to leave…never…ever…never…_

Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, the Unit Chief broke eye contact with Fletcher and leaned forward, elbows braced on knees. _I'm okay…I'm okay…_ The mocking chuckle went back to whatever depths it inhabited, leaving a slightly hysterical trill in its wake. _I'm okay…I'm okay…I'm okay…_

"Aaron? You okay?"

Rossi's gentle question, echoing as it did his internal battle, brought forth a bitter, rasping laugh. Hotch took a deep breath and straightened, feeling the queasiness ebb. Feeling, in fact, _everything_ ebb; all the extreme emotions that seemed to plague him ever since Mr. Scratch waltzed through his psyche were replaced by a curious blankness. It was a relief.

"Aaron?"

He met Rossi's worried eyes. "No, Dave. I'm not okay." He shifted his focus to Fletcher. "And I'm never going to be, right Doc? Isn't that what you're going to tell me?"

The psychiatrist rose, taking a seat across from the couch occupied by the two agents; Rossi still perched on one arm, but Hotch settled back as though his bones and sinews were drained of tension. As though there was nothing left to fight.

"Aaron, I'll be honest with you. I promised you that when we first met. Remember?"

"Sure. I remember. But there's a lot of other stuff I remember that's more fiction than fact, right? And that's not going away. And I'll never be sure of any of it. That's what you want to say, isn't it?"

"Stop it, Aaron." Rossi's voice was cold and hard. "Just shut up and listen." It was harsh, but Dave was scared. He desperately wanted Fletcher to tell Hotch he was all wrong; that it was just a matter of time and patience before he'd emerge all bright and shiny and refurbished. But the nibbling fear that was making its way up from the pit of his stomach told Rossi any kind of fresh, new rebirth was a fairy tale. So he let his fear come out as annoyance at the person he wanted to protect and rescue the way any father would want to help his son. "Shut up, Aaron. Let the Doc talk."

Hotch obeyed, but only because the boneless, blankness he was feeling didn't care enough to argue anymore.

"Aaron, the honest truth is that you're in a place where there aren't any rules. Not yet, anyway. There's just not enough research, not enough case studies to define the limits of, or the treatment for, moral injury. Plus…" Fletcher shifted uncomfortably. "…there are the _other_ aspects of what you've lived through and what's been done to you. Even if there were more information on MIS, yours would still be a highly individual situation."

He paused, but neither agent spoke. He knew they were waiting, hoping for more. Fletcher did his best to give it to them.

"What little we do know…what I've been able to research and piece together has given me some rough ideas for how we might move forward." He leaned in, intent on communicating what he regarded as a slight ray of hope. "Aaron, you need to focus on self-forgiveness. Try to allow yourself some perspective. You've come through a great deal. You know more now than you knew even a few weeks ago about yourself and about the people who've hurt you."

Fletcher took another steadying breath and plunged into the only treatments he'd been able to find. "Patients have found it helpful to use that distance between who they were when the moral injury happened, and who they are now. Sometimes it helped if they wrote a letter to the person they killed or to a younger version of themselves. You have to find a way to forgive yourself for whatever wrongs you think you've done. Focus on making amends with yourself, planning for your future and moving forward."

The doctor's voice had been charged with energy. Now, it faltered. "Looking ahead is important, Aaron…especially for those patients who may think they _have_ no future."

For a moment, silence held the room and the men in its grip. As sound and well-meaning as Fletcher's advice might be, there was a morbid undertone to it. No future.

Rossi wanted to deny it.

At the moment, in his present mood, Hotch felt more like embracing it.


	78. Going Solo

Silence enveloped the Hotchner living room.

The Unit Chief's shoulders sagged. Looking like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he slumped deeper into the couch cushions and closed his eyes. Rossi and Fletcher exchanged glances. The psychiatrist cleared his throat and resumed speaking, sharing more of what little was known about Moral Injury Syndrome.

"Aside from finding a way to forgive yourself, and keeping your future at the forefront of your thoughts, some of my colleagues are testing a therapeutic approach called adaptive disclosure, a technique akin to confession." He waited for Hotch to respond.

When a full minute had passed and the Unit Chief hadn't so much as twitched a muscle, Fletcher looked to Rossi. The older agent shrugged. There was no guidance he could offer in this situation. It was new ground for all of them. The doctor resumed what felt increasingly like a monologue being delivered to an indifferent audience.

"So…adaptive disclosure, as I was saying…" Mentally, Fletcher dredged up information from Hotch's personnel files. The man had been raised Catholic, so maybe the concept of confession would resonate. It wasn't much to hang his hopes on, but at least it was _some_ thing.

"So we ask the patient to close his eyes…" Fletcher darted another glance Rossi's way, but encountered only steady regard. "…and he's asked to verbally share vivid details of his trauma with an imagined compassionate person…someone who loves him…then to imagine how that person would respond. The therapist guides the conversation along a path toward healing. Hopefully."

After an interval long enough to let everyone know that the doctor had nothing else to offer on the matter, Hotch's chest expanded and fell with a long, slow breath. He huffed a small, bitter sound into the silence.

"Well, Doc, my eyes are closed and Dave's here. Probably the only guy I'd 'confess' to. And…" He shook his head in slow negation. "…I don't feel any better about anything. So…" The Unit Chief opened his eyes, training an empty, flat look on Fletcher. "…you got anything else?"

The grim set of the psychiatrist's lips said that he wasn't going to give up. Not yet. "What I've got doesn't really matter, Aaron. In the end, you're the one who'll have to do all the work. We've discussed this already. With injuries physical and injuries emotional, doctors don't heal. Patients heal themselves. Patients are the real heroes, not doctors. So, if you want to wallow in resentment or anger…you have a perfect right to. It's normal and, for a while, even healthy. But when you're done…" Fletcher's voice lowered and softened. "…when you've got that out of your system, there are people waiting right here…" His eyes shifted for a moment toward Rossi. "…who want to help."

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks." Hotch's lids lowered once more, closing off communication. And then he crossed one forearm over his eyes, sending a clear message that he wasn't in the mood to participate in anything else. At least, not this night.

Minutes passed.

Fletcher looked at his watch and then at Rossi. The older agent raised his brows and executed one of his half-shrugs. Fletcher couldn't decide if the gesture was comforting or dismissive. But it was very late, and they were all tired. He stood and stretched the evening's tension out of his spine with a groan.

"Listen, Aaron…Dave…I'm going to leave a message for your Director with my recommendation that you take more time off to deal with things. You don't have to follow my advice where you son is concerned, but it'd be a good idea to keep him home and stay close in case he wants to discuss things again." The doctor's sigh was weary with experience. "I can guarantee he'll want things repeated a few times. It takes a while for past trauma to settle into an understandable pattern, so it can be dealt with in present time. Especially if you're a child."

During the ensuing pause, Fletcher was hard-pressed to recall ever feeling more uncomfortable. There wasn't any more that could be done until Hotch had rested, emotionally as well as physically, but the doctor felt remiss about leaving him in such an uncommunicative state. He eyed Rossi and tilted his head toward the front hallway.

Dave nodded and rose. "Be right back, Aaron." He studied the younger man for a moment before following Fletcher out of the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"I don't like leaving him alone, Dave. But there's nothing else I can do and…"

"And you have to be on point for other patients tomorrow. And you need sleep to do that. And it's already past midnight. And…" Rossi let a tired smile creep out. "…you've already gone above and beyond, Doc, just by coming out here."

It was a supportive statement, but Fletcher couldn't muster a smile in response. Instead, he looked at the floor and shook his head. "Maybe it's my own private hell, but I never feel I've done _enough_. Aaron's in a, well, _delicate_ place. It's one of those times when I try to imagine how a patient might be feeling…and I really can't. All I can do is guess." He gave Rossi a mournful look. "I don't really know Jack. The epiphany that kid had of how his mother died is like…like…"

"Like weaponizing another booby trap in Hotch's mind?" Dave's words finished the doctor's thought.

"Yeah. Hard to tell how things are gonna go." Fletcher gazed back toward the living room where his patient remained eerily silent.

"Go home, Doc. I'll hang around for a while…make sure nothing else blows up. At least, not tonight."

"Thanks, Dave. You're a good friend. He's lucky to have you. G'night." Fletcher headed toward the door. "Call me if you need me."

The words were a polite, professional nothing.

Both men knew the next move had to be Hotch's.

XXXXXXXXXXX

After the psychiatrist left, Rossi paused to observe Aaron from his vantage point in the living room doorway. The younger man was utterly still. The only sign of life was the slight movement of his chest rising and falling. Dave's eyes narrowed. He could interpret this kind of behavior several different ways. He needed more to go on.

So he strode into the room, blew out a gusty sigh and plopped down beside Hotch with enough force to bounce him just a little. "Hell of a day, Aaron. Hell of a day."

The Unit Chief's posture remained unchanged; head thrown back, neck stretched long, forearm crossed over his eyes. After a moment Rossi slapped his friend's thigh with a solid backhand. "Hey. C'mon. Talk to me."

Dave was rewarded with a sound that blended a grunt and a moan into something soft and miserable.

"Aaron, it's late. We both need sleep, but I'm not leaving until I have some idea what's rattling around in that thick skull of yours." He nudged Hotch's leg again…none too gently.

"Go home, Dave." The rumbling baritone managed to attain a note of command while remaining expressionless.

"Can't."

"Go."

"Won't."

"Please."

"Bite me."

At last a tiny quiver at the corner of Hotch's mouth gave Rossi hope. It might be a truncated smile. It could also be the grimace that presaged tears. Dave prayed it was the former.

"I appreciate all you've done, Dave. But if you say 'bite me' again…I will."

Rossi felt as though an anvil's worth of tension had lifted: humor lived! His voice lost all of its challenge when he spoke. "I just need to know you'll be okay tonight. I can stay…"

Hotch dropped his arm and opened his eyes, turning his head and leveling a steady, open gaze at the older man. They searched each other as only friends whose trust is complete can. With a deep sigh, the Unit Chief levered himself out of his boneless slump. Leaning over, elbows braced on knees, he tried to express what felt like a shipwreck in his soul.

"I'm tired, Dave. I got into a fistfight with my boss. My son retrieved a memory too horrific for any kid to be able to bear. And I was told there's no nice, safe path out of all this, because it's too new to the psychiatric industry." He pulled himself up, sitting straight and giving Rossi a sad look. "I need time to process tonight, and I need even more to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do, since it looks like it's up to me to find my way out…and Jack's way out." He raised his palms to his face and scrubbed at his eyes, feeling the stubble on his cheeks and chin that reminded him just how late the hour was. "That's the most important part; seeing Jack all the way through this and…" His voice caught, then steadied. "…and getting him to the other side of it, even if I get left behind and can't follow him."

Weariness coupled with the idea of growing away from his son mentally and emotionally was too much. Hotch's shoulders shook in a soundless surrender. The silent sobs hurt.

"Aaron…Aaron…C'mere…" Rossi edged closer, pulling his friend into a fatherly hug, stroking along his back until a measure of calm returned. It reminded him of when Jack and first been sent into the Witness Protection program. Lying in a hospital bed with wounds that were searing pain and frightful memories of being stabbed as though he were Foyet's personal party game, the Unit Chief had remained stoic and controlled…until he voiced his greatest dread: that he'd be separated from his child for years; long enough for Jack to forget the strong, male arms that had always been ready to hug and protect and love.

Rossi felt his own heart squeeze in sympathy. It just wasn't fair for a man who needed to love and be loved as much as Hotch did to always be confronting losing his son. It wasn't quite the same as Witness Protection. This time it wasn't distance and time that were the enemies. This time it was mental health. Because Dave knew that if Aaron didn't feel whole and capable, there was a good chance, if Jack recovered and he didn't, that Aaron would sacrifice the father-son bond. _He already considers himself challenged in the parenthood area. The idiot would think he'd be saddling his kid with a father that would drag him down…would be a constant reminder of the things the kid had overcome._

"I think I'll stay a while…"

"No. No, Dave. Seriously, I need to be alone. Really."

Rossi took his time studying the younger man, bending all of his professional skill on him. Not because the signs were happy or hopeful, but because Hotch let himself be studied, knowing exactly what Dave was doing, Dave acquiesced. "Okay. I'll leave. But I'm a speed dial away, got it?"

"Got it."

"And the doc said he'd put in for time off, so don't worry about work. This…you and Jack…are more important. Got it?"

"Yeah. Still got it. Got all of it."

"Okay. Night."

"Night…and thanks."

Rossi saw himself out. He glanced back more than once as he walked to his car.


	79. Battle Plan

The first thing Hotch did after Rossi left was wrestle his perfect, polished wingtips off, not bothering to unlace them.

There was something symbolic, bordering on the iconic, that linked the concept of freedom to being shoeless. There was also something that tied wingtips to the Department of Justice with its rigid rules and codes. Aaron was surprised at the small thrill of rebellion that briefly sparked in his chest as he kicked the shoes away.

The second thing he did was pad down the hall to Jack's room. He eased the door open a few inches and pressed close, listening, just one eye and the tip of his nose intruding on his son's privacy. The only sound was a child's deep, even respiration. Hotch released a breath of his own, unaware that he'd been holding it as he strained for anything that might indicate Jack's sleep was less than peaceful.

He'd expected nightmares. Or insomnia. _But he's got to be more drained than I am. Children don't have the emotional stamina of adults._ Aaron sighed and felt some of his own tension on his son's behalf, ease. _Thank God for good, honest exhaustion._ Ordinarily, he would have gone to Jack's bedside and let himself enjoy watching the boy sleep, but there was too much roiling in his brain. With more than tender care, Hotch pulled the door shut and retreated down the hall to the living room where so much had happened that night, beginning with the Director's visit.

He hovered near the couch, looking at his abraded knuckles. He still couldn't believe there wouldn't be some kind of fallout over the altercation. Fletcher had said he'd put in a recommendation for time off. Hotch wasn't sure that that wouldn't be converted to a permanent 'vacation.' _I mean, Jeeeeezzz…I hit my boss!_

He looked up, catching his own reflection in the night-darkened plate glass window; it's wide expanse showing him an unremarkable interior and a man who looked as though he didn't belong there. He shook his head, jarring the impression from his mind. _Of course I belong here. This is my home; the home I made for Jack. The home where…where…_ He'd wanted to tell himself 'the home where nothing bad happens,' but he couldn't complete the thought.

The phantom sounds of cuffs snicking around his wrists, of voices shouting at him to get on the floor, of his son's horrified cries as Daddy was brought to his knees, rattled through him. Underneath them all was a sly, hissing chuckle. Aaron squeezed his eyes shut.

He could no longer tell if the sibilant, taunting laughter came from his father or Peter Lewis or any of the dozens of unsubs who'd love to see him destroyed.

When he thought the mocking, villainous hiss would fill him, when he thought he'd explode from its pressure, a tiny sense-memory from earlier in the evening pushed its way forward. Like a survival instinct throwing him a lifeline, through the maze of hostile noise, came a small boy's sob.

Hotch squeezed his lids tighter, bringing his palms up and crushing them against his temples, trying to force back everything but that childish sound of pure sorrow and dependence…that cry of need that had a magical ability to reach into the center of his father's soul. _I beat Lewis back before…I…_

Aaron's eyes snapped open, a shockwave of realization coursing through his very core.

 _I beat it back before! I did!_ The insidious, rasping whispers that had told him to give up, that he wasn't a good father because he'd had no one to set him an example, had tried to hijack him while he was wrapped around Jack, trying to ease the passage of ugly memories pushing their way back into his son's conscious recollection. _And I beat them! I did! Because…because…_

It was another mental heave to overturn the scratchy urgings of Peter Lewis. But, again, it worked. Hotch remembered with laser clarity. _I heard Dave telling me I was safe. I heard him say I was loved, and I knew! I knew I was worth something because he loved me…because he kept saying so._ Unsure of his footing, Hotch felt around for a seat. He dropped onto the couch and rubbed his hands against the fabric as though the power of Rossi's words lingered in the roughly-woven texture.

 _So Fletcher's right. He's not just mouthing some untested theories. Whatever was done to me can be overwritten, but…God, it took so much effort! And it took being pushed to the edge of an emotional cliff._

Like the frantic scrabbling of a rat's claws, he could feel the angry, mocking voice fighting to regain its dominance. His jaw muscles flexed and pulsed as he gritted his teeth. _Get DOWN! Get OUT!_ His respiration roughened with the mental and emotional exertion. Shivering, his hand crept toward his phone, thinking it would help bolster him to hear Rossi's voice again, even if he didn't say anything about safety or affection.

But then, Hotch's hand stopped. Panting, he opened his eyes, staring at nothing, but seeing an inner landscape where his mind sped at a frantic pace that might have equaled Reid's mental athletics. _No…If I can't do this on my own, I'll never be whole again. Lewis will have won._

His ragged breathing caught a few times, but slowly evened out. Heart still pounding, Aaron knew he hadn't won this battle. All the damage was coiled inside him, lurking in wait; spying around corners to find odd moments when it could assert itself and weaken him more and more each time it did. Strangely, the knowledge helped.

 _Maybe Lewis has been in my mind, but maybe that means he left a little of his own behind. I know you, Lewis. You don't go for a quick win. You play the long game and you come out on top because so few people have the kind of patience and focus to fight back. But I do…at least, I used to…_

The more the Unit Chief delved into the model he was constructing of Peter Lewis's inner workings, the more his own physical symptoms calmed; his mind's activity overruled the blind animal panic of the emotional triggers that had been installed in him. There was still a razor's edge of fear and dread, but, as with so many things that governed his feelings, he wasn't sure if it was really his, or an implant courtesy of Mr. Scratch.

 _And if it's not mine, it's something I can overwrite. And if I learn how to do it for myself, by myself…I'll be able to help Jack. I'll be able to guide him the way no mental health professional ever could. I'll know the way. I'll know the pitfalls. And it'll be easier for Jack anyway; like the doc said, he's got a whole lifetime of greater and better things just waiting to push his childhood down into a manageable, little package._ Aaron's breath caught in an almost-sob. _Oh, God…I have to teach my son how to compartmentalize._ It was a profiler's tactic for dealing with the unthinkable horrors attendant on the job. It shouldn't have to be a skill necessary to a child.

Hotch covered his eyes, depriving himself of visual distractions, and listened to his own thoughts. He tried to sort out the events of the evening and find the things he could use as ammunition, and because the fight had Jack squarely in the center more than ever before, goading him on…he began to make progress.

 _Overwriting…overwriting is the key. In time it'll come naturally for Jack, but I'll have to work at it. What did Fletcher say?..._

In the end Aaron couldn't trust his memory, couldn't know if it was Lewis or his father or the psychiatrist leaving a trail of words for him to follow. So he went to his office and booted up his computer. His smile grew grim as the screen blinked to life.

 _The internet is usually the last place I'd trust. So much false information pouring into it and masquerading as fact. But…_

His search was for Moral Injury Syndrome. The available data was scanty, but Hotch found what he was looking for. He skipped over the treatises and theoretical proposals. He ignored the authorities associated with mental healthcare.

He shivered with distaste as Hieronymus Mason's name popped up with unnerving frequency.

He found what he wanted tucked away in a journal that was more about travel than medicine.

Two army veterans; physically sound, but emotionally shattered. No one to help them. No one to label their damage until the end of their journey when they could once again speak of the horrors peopling their dreams and stretching out long, shadowy fingers to wound their lives.

By sheer luck they'd connected with each other. Both attending group therapy for PTSD; both getting little or no comfort from it; both reluctant to speak up; both convinced they were irreparably damaged and ashamed of it. Until one dropped a stray comment, fueled by frustration: "This is a waste of time. I'm not coming back." Most shook their heads, but one stared at him, feeling an echo in himself that couldn't be denied.

They deserted the program designed to help vets. They felt the need to run away. So they did. Together. And along the way, as time passed, they healed themselves.

For the rest of the night, Hotch read and reread the soldiers' story. He mapped out a plan.

As the sky beyond the plate glass window became streaked with pearly pink, he reached for his phone to call Rossi. This time he didn't stop himself.

And the reflection in the glass, as nighttime ebbed, showed an unremarkable interior and one very remarkable, very determined man.


	80. Seekers

"You're kidding, right?"

Rossi rubbed a hand over bleary eyes and glanced at his bedside clock. Six in the morning. Barely past dawn. And, judging by what Hotch's voice, emanating from his phone, was saying, he was betting the Unit Chief hadn't slept at all.

So maybe what Dave was hearing was the product of an over-tired brain. Maybe a few hours of shut-eye would make it all go away; would make it register on Hotch's ear as off-kilter as it had sounded to Rossi. To that end…

"Aaron, when was the last time you slept?"

A thin outrage coated Hotch's reply. "Don't make it about that, Dave."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe in…in this."

Rossi came more awake and heard a subtext he'd been wanting to hear for quite some time. _He means he believes in himself. He's trusting his judgment, and he needs me to get behind him and support him on this._ As much as Jack's sob the previous evening had reached into Hotch's heart, so the unspoken need in the younger man's voice found its way into Rossi's.

"Okay. Okay, Aaron." Dave pulled himself up into a sitting position, bracing his back against his elegantly carved headboard and thinking for all its ornate beauty, it made for very uncomfortable support. "But slow down and let me wake up before you go haring off on some quest or something, okay?"

"Fine." One word, but it was terse, impatient; more indicative of the decisive man Hotch had been before Peter Lewis had exhumed all his insecurities and set them front and center for everyone to see.

"Fletcher said he put in for you to take time off. Sounded mandatory to me. And no one's gonna question if I'm a little late, so let me get up and I'll be over in a little bit." Rossi's finger hovered over the button to end the call, but he paused.

"And when I get there, you damn well better have coffee on. Got it?"

"Fine." Again, that one word, but this time there was a tiny thrill of eagerness in it.

As Dave rooted around his closet for clothing and made sure Mudge's food and water bowls were full, he played and replayed that word and its tone in his mind's ear.

There was hope in it, and that invigorated him more than caffeine ever could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Here."

Rossi blinked down at the steaming cup of dark brew that had been unceremoniously shoved into his hands in response to his knock on Hotch's door. "Gee, thanks. And good morning to you, too, Aaron."

He stepped over the threshold, taking an appreciative sip despite the slight sarcasm of his greeting. It felt as though he'd just left Hotch's place, and, in fact, it had been only a few hours since he'd departed. There was a distinct sense of lingering trauma hovering about the environs.

"Where's Jack?"

"Still asleep."

"So you haven't discussed anything with him?"

"Not yet. Wanted to hear what you thought first."

Rossi studied the worn-looking man before him. _He wants to know if I think he's crazy. I could put the kibosh on the whole idea if I go that route. And I just might…_ "And if Jack doesn't want to go along?"

"I think he will. I think we both need this." But Dave could tell by the way Hotch was chewing his bottom lip that every second he withheld his approval was eating into the determination and self-assurance that had been behind that early morning call in the first place.

Rossi nodded, walked to the living room couch that had been the site of the previous evening's overwrought emotions and settled himself onto it with a sigh. "Alright, Aaron. I'm listening. Tell me again and convince me you're not just running on exhaustion."

Hotch dragged a chair around so he could sit directly in front of Dave, placing the two men face to face. It was clear he meant business. He was aiming himself at Rossi, leaning forward as though his posture would give his words added weight.

"Okay. It's like this…" As he gathered his thoughts, Aaron ran a hand through his hair, igniting a conflagration of cowlicks that, along with his unshaven stubble, gave him a slightly deranged look. It was not the most reassuring aspect with which to present his case.

Rossi raised a brow, but kept silent, giving his friend his full attention…and the benefit of his doubt.

"Dave, we tried going the whole standard, department-approved route and I feel as though we're getting nowhere."

Rossi opened his mouth to protest that he thought they might be blazing trails that weren't yet documented; hardly what could be termed 'getting nowhere,' but Hotch raised a hand, palm outward to stave off any objections.

"No, please. Let me say it all and then…then you can tell me, well, whatever you want." The Unit Chief took Dave's continued silence, coupled with an expression of grave attention, as the green light to continue.

"Fletcher said it himself early on: this Moral Injury Syndrome isn't new. In fact, no mental or emotional condition is new. They've all been around for as long as mankind has. Fletcher said something else, too. He said that doctors don't cure. People heal, but it's not because a doctor has some magical way to bend physical or mental illnesses to his will. And if that's true, then I began to think that someone at some point _did_ heal themselves. And if MIS has been here all along, then there _are_ ways out. It's just that doctors haven't been the ones to witness how it's been done. There had to be stories about people working themselves out of whatever mental mess they're in. It's just that no medical professional has signed off on how they did it."

Hotch bent closer; earnest eyes locked with Rossi's. "I mean, if you find yourself doing something that makes you feel better…that gives you hope…why would you involve a doctor? You wouldn't need one. You'd drop out of whatever treatment you might have been taking and…and…and that's probably a large part of why there isn't much official literature about MIS _now_. But the answers _are_ out there.

"So I went looking for them." Hotch paused to take a breath, eyes still searching Dave's for some sign of reaction. Rossi kept his expression carefully neutral.

"And did you find anything?"

"I did. I think I did."

"And?"

Aaron took a deep breath and straightened his spine just a little. It was a movement that Dave read as defensive. _He expects me to argue with him. God, I hope whatever he's going to propose makes sense…_

"I found stories about troubled vets who felt they weren't being helped by therapy or group counseling sessions. I found a couple of them who took things into their own hands without even knowing why they felt compelled to do so."

Rossi was almost afraid to ask. "What did they do?"

"Just what Fletcher said: they overwrote the trauma that was foremost in their minds."

"How?"

"They traveled. They began on one side of the country and walked across it. Together. The journey provided enough new experiences and new visions to replace the ugliness that was at the root of their problems."

"So you want to take Jack on a cross-country hike?" Dave's tone was enough to tell Hotch that he didn't give the idea a lot of credence. "That doesn't sound like…"

"No. Please. Let me finish."

Rossi pressed his lips into a skeptical line, but nodded at the Unit Chief to continue.

"You remember all those cases Fletcher made me talk about? The ones where you kept interrupting and telling me that I was wrong about my own memories, or at least my interpretation of them?"

Rossi nodded again. At the time he hadn't been sure Aaron had grasped how twisted his view of reality had become. Apparently, he had, and was willing to accept it. Dave refrained from saying that he considered that acceptance a major step forward, yet Hotch had just claimed virtually no progress in his treatment.

"Dave, I've been all over this country. Our whole team has. But all the cities and places we've been were just locations…crime scenes." Aaron hesitated, licking dry lips. "I want to go back. To each one. I want to see the things we missed. The forests, rivers, scenery. I want to see people who aren't grieving or scared. Dave…I want to see if I can find something…" His voice grew small, less sure of itself. "…something…you know…beautiful."

The two men's eyes connected; both searching.

Rossi was looking for signs of weakness, signals that Aaron wanted to be talked out of this plan.

Hotch sought something else entirely. He wanted to find trust. He wanted to see the same faith he remembered shining out of his team's eyes when they knew following their leader was the surest path to success, no matter the task before them.

Rossi didn't find what he was looking for.

Hotch did.


	81. Stepping Outside the Lines

Rossi was rather late getting to work that morning.

He dropped off his briefcase in his office, being careful to avoid the quizzical glances from the bullpen. He had things to say, but the team weren't the first ones he wanted to say them to.

The Director should be first.

Head down, looking sober and thoughtful, he made his way to the inner sanctum of the Bureau. When he reached the Director's office, he paused. _Maybe I_ _ **should**_ _have talked to the team first. Maybe it would've been a good rehearsal._ He gave his head a frustrated shake before raising his eyes from the floor he'd been tracking all the way, watching his own feet rather than making eye contact with any agents roving the halls. Rossi raised his gaze.

The Director was staring at him; an equally sober, thoughtful expression gracing features that bore a bruise where Hotch's fist had connected the day before.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The Director didn't like distractions.

Distractions impeded thought processes, thereby affecting judgment and speed of decision. Delayed decision-making could cost lives.

He'd been distracted all morning.

It started when he woke up and felt the swelling on his jaw. It continued while he shaved and dressed, each sore movement reminding him that time's steady pace was affecting his ability to handle angry, young bucks like Agent Hotchner. And that's when the real distraction took root.

Agent Hotchner.

The Director used the time driving to the Bureau to sort through his own mental state. To be honest…something he demanded of himself in private, at least…he was a little bit angry with his BAU Unit Chief. The boy had a blind spot a mile wide when it came to his own performance and worth. But he also had a heart deeper than the ocean, wider than the sky; such a rare quality, and almost nonexistent in those who opted to make their careers in the FBI. Oh, maybe they'd start out with delusions of justice and stars in their eyes, but most of that would get knocked out of them within the first few gritty, ugly cases. They'd develop a shell, hone their compartmentalizing skills, and function just as expected.

Not Hotchner.

The Director would never tell anyone about the evening he'd been feeling a little low himself. The state of the world weighed on him more than usual. He'd taken a stroll through the Bureau, knowing most of the staff had gone home. He'd needed to see the machine at rest; needed to walk the empty halls and find the sense of pride and hope that kept him at his job day after day.

He'd been self-indulgent, feeling the martyr, until his soft steps brought him to the after-hours BAU bullpen.

A desk lamp was the only illumination in Agent Hotchner's office. The Director shook his head, one side of his lips quirking upward in a wry grin. He might have known the Unit Chief would be burning the midnight oil. Through the blinds he could see the man's head bent as though he were studying some report or request for consultation. The Director took a few steps closer, intending to tell the agent to go home and get some rest. But he stopped mid-stride.

Hotchner's shoulders were shaking.

In complete silence, Aaron was crying.

The Director backed up, mind whirling and fixed now on the agent's problems rather than his own. He could retrace his path and grant Hotchner his privacy, or… The Director coughed, making plenty of noise as he approached this second time. If he hadn't already seen it, he never would have known that his Unit Chief was grieving something. Hotch was quick to angle himself away from the office door, wiping a furtive hand across his eyes and turning a stoic, if red-eyed, façade toward his boss.

"Evening, Hotchner. Everything okay?"

"Of course, Sir. Everything's fine."

The Director nodded, glancing around the office as though nothing in particular claimed his attention. "How are things going? Team okay?"

"Yes, Sir." Aaron cleared the slight hoarseness from his throat. "They're a good bunch. The best."

"Mmmm…" The wordless hum might have indicated anything. It covered the few steps the Director took deeper into Hotch's office. It allowed him the opportunity to get a surreptitious look at the papers over which his Unit Chief had been bent.

A case file.

A crime scene.

A child's photo uppermost.

A dead child.

The Director feigned ignorance of having seen what lay on the desk, but he felt a responsive chord deep in his own heart. Even blunted by the buffer of decades more exposure to such horrors than Hotch had yet to accumulate, he felt the stab. He continued past his agent, taking up a stance that let him gaze out the office window into the night where the lights of Quantico proper sparkled in the distance.

He wondered how he could help Agent Hotchner. And then, he knew. He'd ask the question he'd always wished someone had asked him. The question that had no answer, really.

As he looked out into the deceptively peaceful darkness, he also watched his Unit Chief's reflection in the glass. His voice was low and calm; an invitation to discussion, not a demand. "Agent Hotchner, if you could change one thing about your job, what would it be?" He saw the younger man blink; could almost read the thoughts running through his mind: _Is this a test? Have I done something wrong? Is my team in trouble? Why is he here? What does he really want?_

The Director turned from the window and gave Aaron a tired smile. "It's just a question, Agent. Nothing more." He took a deep breath and tilted his head like a quizzical Saint Bernard. "What would you change, Hotchner? Anything?"

There was no "right" answer. The Director just wanted to turn the man's thoughts toward something other than the sorrow he so obviously was feeling. He recalled his own time coming up the ranks when he'd have given almost anything for someone to do the same for him. And maybe to listen to his answers… _More equipment? More personnel? Bigger budget? Higher tech?_

But it was Hotch's answer that removed any doubt in the Director's mind that this agent was special.

"I'd make my job unnecessary, Sir."

In the moments of silence that followed, the Director studied his subordinate. _He removed himself from the equation. Most men would have asked for something that allowed them to do their job_ _ **better**_ _. Their egos would still be squarely at the center of each scenario. He didn't. He saw farther. He went past the practical and into someplace impossible…someplace closer to the soul._ The Director made a concerted effort not to react, allowing himself only a slight smile and an even slighter nod.

 _My God. This is a truly…_ _ **good**_ _…man. If he can survive here, if he can last long enough, he might just become the best FBI Director the Department of Justice has ever known…And even I would be proud to serve under such a leader._

XXXXXXXXXX

By the time the Director pulled into his reserved parking spot, he felt less distracted. His mind was calmer. There was only one goal to work toward.

 _Make sure you don't lose Agent Hotchner. Whatever it takes._ He heaved a sigh of resignation. _Should have known a man like that would get derailed. Lord knows it took a hell of a lot to do it, too. But he's still solid under the damage. And I'm not going to let him go._

As he rode up the elevator from the subterranean garage, the Director recalled the voicemail he'd found last night. Some purported expert on whatever ailed Agent Hotchner. Guy with the preposterous name of Hieronymus.

 _But don't judge the book by its cover. The name might be unfortunate, but maybe he's just what Hotchner needs_ , he mused. _Gotta have his credentials checked out._

XXXXXXXXX

Rossi looked up straight into the Director's eyes.

Their equally mournful expressions were an automatic ice-breaker.

The Director sat back in his chair and motioned for the senior agent to enter. "Have a seat, Dave. Let me guess. Hotchner?" Rossi nodded.

The Director scrubbed a hand over his face. He was glad he'd given the matter some thought and could present a decisive front. "Well, if he's worried about yesterday, tell him to rest easy." He touched the bruise on his jaw. "I've had worse. And I'm well aware that I goaded him into attacking."

Rossi dropped into one of the supple, leather chairs facing his boss's desk. The Director had expected a lightening of Dave's expression, knowing his protégé was getting off scot free after hitting his superior, but the somber cast of his features hadn't lifted.

"I know you spent some time with him after I left. And I've got a couple of messages already today about him…So what's the latest?"

Rossi relaxed into the chair, crossing his legs. "He has a plan. Wants to take a sort of sabbatical I guess you could call it."

The Director leaned forward and flicked at his keyboard, opening an email he'd already read. "Got something from Dr. William Fletcher here about time off. That what this's about?"

"Kind of, but no. Not really."

With a sigh, the Director pushed his keyboard away and gave his full attention to the agent before him. "Okay, Dave. Tell me what's going on."

So Rossi did.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Dave had had his say, the Director stood and paced the perimeter of his office, turning the proposal over in his mind, searching for flaws and pitfalls. There were quite a few. He paused in front of his desk, leaning back against it and fixing Rossi with a discerning eye.

"And Hotchner plans on taking his kid with him? That could backfire."

"It could. Or it might bring them to a deeper understanding of each other. Kid's smart."

"Like his Dad."

"Yeah."

"And troubled like his Dad from what you've told me." The Director gave his head a regretful shake. "I really did hit a sore spot with Hotchner yesterday." He rubbed his jaw, feeling the bruised flesh. "Well, what do you think, Dave? Can the guy handle it? Going back to revisit places that traumatized him?"

"But he won't be looking for the trauma. It won't be like revisiting a crime scene. He thinks it'll help things go the opposite way. That whole overwriting thing I mentioned." Rossi took a breath and released it slowly. "I think he can handle it. And if he can't…"

"You'll be there to help him out?"

"Just a phone call away." He shrugged. "Maybe a little closer than that."

"You planning on taking a leave of absence, too?" The Director's brows rose.

"No. Not exactly." Rossi cracked the first smile since he'd walked in the door. "But, depending on Hotch's itinerary, I might manage to be close by for one or two locales."

The Director pushed himself away from leaning on his desk, walked around, and resumed his place in the chair behind it. Dave remained silent, giving his boss time to think things through. At last, the man gave a decisive nod.

"Alright. Okay. We'll try it Hotchner's way. But not just because he's convinced it'll work. This could help others. Oh…" He waved a dismissive hand. "…not in the exact same way, but it'll give us an idea what direction to go with agents who've had it rough. Although, God knows, what that man has been through is some of the worst I've heard in a very long career, Dave."

Rossi bit his bottom lip and lowered his eyes. "Me, too. I wouldn't push for this, but, even talking about it, Hotch really seems more like his old self." He looked up. "I'd like that guy back."

A slow smile spread across the Director's features. "Me, too. I don't plan on losing him. Not yet."

"So this has your blessing?"

"Yes. Just keep in touch with him and keep me in the loop on how it goes." He stood, signaling the meeting was at its end. "Do you know when he plans on executing this…therapy?'

Rossi rose from his seat and moved toward the door. "Right away. He has to work things out with his son's school and I know he wants to explain what he's doing to the team, but…" He shrugged. "…that shouldn't take long. When Aaron's got a goal, he doesn't waste time."

This time a full-fledged grin touched the Director's lips, causing him to wince as his bruise stretched. "That's one of the things I like about him."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi stood, paced a few steps, and then returned to his seat.

He checked his watch and directed an accusatory glare at the signs announcing flight departure times. He glanced at Hotch every few seconds, unable to stop himself from searching for signs of distress.

The Unit Chief sat in one of the hard, plastic airport lounge chairs, flipping through a Newsweek magazine. Clad in jeans and a flannel shirt, go-bag at his sneakered feet, Aaron looked the picture of unconcern. When Rossi tapped his Rolex yet again, as though distrusting its measured mark of time, Hotch's baritone growled at him.

"If you're gonna keep this up, Dave, I'll change my mind about letting you tag along." One dark brow rose as Aaron fixed his friend with a gimlet stare. "Don't make me regret this."

"I'm just not sure this is the best place to start. I kind of thought you'd do this in baby steps. At least, at first."

Hotch went back to perusing his magazine. "This _**is**_ baby steps. Jack's not coming for the first one. It's just an extended weekend really. I'll be home in a couple of days and…"

" _ **We'll**_ be home in a couple of days," Rossi grumbled. "Maybe sooner if things don't go well. I just think you could have picked someplace less…less…less of a _**trigger**_."

"It's not a trigger. It's a town. A very nice town."

"It's Louisville, Kentucky, Aaron. It's the first place you went after Foyet attacked you and sent you on medical leave. And I remember what you said in Fletcher's office." Hotch's twisted take on the matter of bullying information out of Tommy Anderson, a fellow MIS sufferer, in order to find Darrin Call and circumvent a bloody rampage that had already claimed multiple lives, still troubled Rossi.

Hotch sighed, folded his magazine and tucked it neatly away in his go-bag. This time the look he fixed on the older man held no reprimand. There was the sadness that always seemed close to Aaron's surface, but there was also a calm that had been missing for quite some time.

"Dave, I'll say it again: I'm not going there to relive the past. I'm not going to look for any of the people who were involved. I _**am**_ going to look for some Southern grace and hospitality. And maybe I'll walk through some fields of bluegrass. Maybe I'll find one that has horses in it and just…just…watch."

Rossi studied his friend for several beats. "You could have picked someplace else to start with."

"But I feel right about this, Dave. For the first time in a long time, I feel right."

The yearning quality in Hotch's voice told Rossi that Louisville wasn't something chosen lightly. Whatever damage lingered inside Aaron, the very fact that he was taking action against it had already begun the healing process. Dave looked deep into the sad, dark eyes.

There was nothing frantic in them. Nothing pulsing with doubt or panic. They were steady and level and honest. They were the eyes that opened onto the soul of a survivor and a fighter. Aaron's eyes.

The tension in Rossi's chest loosened a little. This first trip wasn't a baby step. It was a man's step. A brave man.

"Fields of bluegrass, huh?"

"Yeah." Hotch nodded. "And maybe horses. And maybe it'll be…something beautiful."

_ The End_


End file.
